Postcards from New Hope
by lyredenfers
Summary: How to Grow a Woman from the Ground. The stories of two generations of Mindelan women set against a growing city in the North.
1. Part I

**Postcards from New Hope**  
(or _How to Grow a Woman from the Ground_)

Part I

At the heart of the city is a circular courtyard. Cobble stone flooring leads inwards and wooden benches dot the perimeter, empty in the early morning light. The courtyard is framed in all direction by townhouses, also wood, impossibly tall and twisting smugly in defiance of gravity.

Here, southern architecture is animated by the spirit of the North. It's the work of a team of academics and mages, come specifically to build and spell against fires. Fire, some years after the Scanran war, is more of a threat than raiding parties sent to attack. Magical theories have been developed and expanded upon over the long, isolated winters and the accompanying design process is flavoured with an edge of frost-bitten insanity.

Twelve arching tunnels - one for every hour of the day - lead away from the courtyard and down from the high ground where the guard house of Mindelan's Bound once stood, when the settlement was still a refugee camp, and not yet a full fledged city.

The space is thick with quiet, almost sacred. And though the form is circular, with no obvious front or back, there is in the middle, being watched by the empty benches, what is undeniably an altar.

The likeness of a warhorse stands larger than life with sparrows perched in his mane, and a scruffy dog stares out from under the horse's feet. To the side - or maybe it's the front - with her shoulder-blade pressed against the gelding's withers, arm slung across his back, head tilted back and a wistful expression beneath her helmet, is Sir Keladry of Mindelan, founding commander of the city.

At her feet, a roughly carved sign reads _So Mote it Be_.

ttt

"Whoops a daisy," says the man that years from now, Hope will be told is Captain Masbolle. The bottom drops out of her stomach and she shrieks before he catches her, grinning.

The toddler, wide-eyed, stares at him for a few seconds, horrified, and there's a sob forming at the bottom of her throat. Hope's eyes prickle unhappily and she look up at the unfeeling, despicable man. Captain Masbolle's crinkled eyes are as clear a blue as the sky on a warm summer's day, and he has a short scruffy beard like Uncle Anders, Hope's favourite person in the entire world.

Hope closes her mouth, open, and ready to scream, and settles for an indignant sniffle. In the end, it's his nose, both awkward and familiar, that change her heart. Flinging chubby arms around the man's neck, she cackles. "Again!"

Masbolle laughs, smoothes the hair back from her forehead and to her everlasting delight, throws Hope back into the air.

_Ride a fine horse to Flyndan's Pass  
To see a proud lady upon a white horse  
With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes  
She shall have music wherever she goes._

There are chuckles from the men gathered around the room and someone speaks, between noisy bites of an apple. "Did your Mama teach you that one, Captain?"

Turning to find the speaker, Hope sees the the largest man she's ever seen. Across, he's at least as wide as her mother is tall, and he doesn't stand in the corner; he looms.

Hope gapes at the man and wonders, in awe, if he came through the doorway.

The man opens his mouth and when he speaks, it's in a low, melodious rumble. "I could ask her tonight," he says. "When we're making sweet, sweet-"

"Corporal Emmett," the Captain interrupts sharply, ignoring the man and looking Hope conspiratorially in the face, "Is only jealous that I'm the one with the prettiest little girl in all of New Hope on his knee. Isn't that right, love?"

The big man turns a dull pink across the cheeks and lumbers towards the door. Hope's head turns, tracking his progress to see if he fits, but there are a new group of men blocking her view, and Emmett from leaving the room. He shrugs and takes a seat.

Hope's Mother's guardhouse office seems to be a popular gathering place. The room fills with people who have come to stare down at her. They're mostly loud and energetic men, and soon the room starts to smell like sweat.

"We're on baby-sitting duty now?"

"Hey, lookit, she's _adorable_! Like Kel... but smaller. Look at her itsy bitsy hands!" A curly-haired man holds up his own hands and stares at them, apparently bewildered by their huge size.

"How many soldiers does it take to watch one kid?"

"This is _Mindelan's_ kid."

Even at a young age, Hope recognizes the reverent tone used on Mother's name; it's the same way that someone would use to talk about Alanna the Lioness, or their chosen deity.

"You say that as if she's about to whip out a glaive, and make a break for the door."

"It could happen!"

"We're trained professionals. Get a hold of yourself, soldier."

"None of us are married, or have children of our own..."

"At least not any legitimate ones - what's your Gods' forsaken point?"

The man that Captain Masbolle has called Corporal Emmett smacks the man beside him upside the head, a ferocious look on his face. "Penn, you fool!"

"Ow! What!" Yelps the one called Penn, his hands flying up in self defense.

"Don't swear in front of the baby!"

"I'm _not_ a baby, I am two and a half years old!" A growl escapes from Hope's throat.

Sometimes Mother likes to tell people that Hope learned to speak dog before learning Common. Hope can never understand why this is so strange; some people speak Scanran, or even Gallan before learning Common. Dogs just happen to speak a lot more sense than humans.

On the subject of not making sense, the same man, Penn, having somehow managed to escape the other's death grip, slaps Emmett cheerfully on the back. "Good one Em. Now you're going to have to move to Carthak and live under an assumed name. We'll miss you sorely - actually, that's debatable, and, uh, another conversation entirely - but this one, when she grows up, she'll be able to break you with her pinky."

Corporal Emmett winces when Hope laughs. She's decided that these men are funny.

"Exactly!" Another soldier takes advantage of the lull in conversation as Captain Masbolle presents Hope with a beautiful wooden horse, and promptly becomes her new best friend. Hope smiles at him winningly. He grins back, and crosses his eyes.

"I'm just saying, I don't want to be the one on baby duty when The Lady Knight's little girl decides that wooden swords aren't realistic enough."

One soldier groans. It sounds like he's in pain. Mother has told Hope that soldiers are tough, though, so maybe he's just pretending. In any case, swords bore Hope. The strings on the Captain's tunic are much more interesting.

When Hope pulls on one string, it gets longer, and the other one gets shorter. It makes a certain kind of sense, she decides after a moment, in the same way that if someone kicks you, you kick back.

Mother says you shouldn't kick people, even if the other guy gives you a really good reason to do it, but Mother tends to have high expectations of people. And also, she kicks people all the time, so her argument doesn't make a whole lot of sense.

"For the love of Blind Mary, nothing bad is going to happen! Fulcher here is an expert on ba- two and a half year olds. He has eleven younger siblings."

"Twelve, actually." A nervous looking man who's been staring at Hope miserably is the one to answer. "Leaving home was the only way to get away from the diapers."

"See! He has twelve younger siblings!"

"I don't know about you but I'm with Fulch, I didn't sign up to look after babies..."

"Shut up, Moron. This isn't just a baby, it's Kel's baby. How many times has she saved your scrawny ass?"

There's a silence and then a bored sounding voice drawls, "Eight, which makes it twice as high as he can count. Watch your language, you under-educated savages, or find somewhere else to loiter."

There's some good-natured laughter, and Corporal Emmett pounces on Penn, putting him in a headlock. "I told you not to curse in front of the baby, you idiot."

Penn squawks in a manner that surely does not befit a soldier of the Crown. His arms flail and he flops about like a fish on the Vassa River boardwalk. His face turns purple.

Masbolle quirks an eyebrow upwards, staring down at Hope.

"Don't you worry about a thing, little one," he says. "Uncle Lerant's got your back."

Strong hands remove Hope from Masbolle's lap, and bring her face to face with this supposed Uncle. His expression changes from irritation to wonder as he stares into Hope's face.

"You're beautiful," he tells her. "You look just like Keladry."

ttt

Thick wooden walls can no longer contain the city. Retired from a career of defense, the ramparts dissect city quarters and mark the beginning of a sloping urban sprawl down to the Vassa River. Faded into the landscape, they are white noise; a soft of reminder of New Hope and the city's uneasy past.

"I'm glad you're back," says Merric.

Kel smiles and shakes her head. "I'm not back, merely passing through."

The corners of Merric's mouth tug upwards. "It's been three weeks, you should really think about finding somewhere to stay."

The wind is flying about in gusts, creating havoc for the fishermen. Their boats dot the dark blue water, pitching dangerously from one side to the other.

"I'm staying in the Guardhouse." Kel looks at Merric, confusion written across her features. "Where I always do."

She teases, "I know you've been eyeing my office, Merric, but really yours is just as big. Bigger, probably, once you take into account the boxes of paperwork stacked in mine."

Merric leans on the boardwalk railing, staring out across the Vassa. He chooses his words carefully, and his face is serious. "True. It's just that, well. Living in an office, it's not exactly... proper." The words sound thin.

The Lady Knight resists the urge to cuff Merric, like she would have done when they were younger, and raises her eyebrows instead. She takes a moment to respond.

"You sleep in your office," Kel says eventually, seemingly calm.

"Yes, but..."

If Merric wants to have this conversation, she's not going to make it easy for him.

"Yes, but?"

"Kel, your daughter is sleeping in a _drawer_."

There's a chilly silence in which Kel is all too aware of the sounds of the waterfront industry, underscored by the distant strike of metal on metal and rolling waves.

"It seems to me," begins Kel. "That people asking for help shouldn't criticize those who answer their call."

Unflinching, Merric matches her stare for stare. That's new, thinks Kel a little giddily.

"We're worried," says Merric.

"We?" Kel feels sick at the thought of her friends sitting around, discussing her shortcomings.

"Yes. Myself, Owen and Tobe - why won't you stay with Neal and Yuki?"

Kel sighs; she's been through this a million times. "They're both run off their feet."

"Mithros, Kel," says Merric. "Them, you, me and the rest of New Hope. In case you haven't noticed, life isn't exactly easy up here."

She can feel herself staring incredulously. "You're _lecturing _me now, Hollyrose?"

"I have no doubt that you can survive alone, Kel. But when you pretend like you can live a happy life, without ever taking help where it's offered, even you know that you're being ridiculous."

Merric's tone is both reasonable and confident and Kel, who hasn't slept in what seems like months, can feel herself curling into the warmth.

"You and your daughter both deserve better."

Kel turns around and stares back at New Hope; it's as though the city is rising from the ground above her. The distant infirmary, where Neal is no doubt working himself into a state of exhaustion, seems to be suspended in mid-air, at the peak, caught on a wire between two neighbouring heights.

"Okay," says Kel, deflated. "Okay, I'll go talk to Yuki this afternoon."

"Good," says Merric, hugging her around the shoulders with one arm. "Now I can steal your office."

Kel glares. "You wouldn't dare."

"You're just lucky, Keladry, that you listened to the voice of reason."

"Don't flatter yourself, Merric, you're not the voice of reason. But," concedes Kel, "I didn't build this city by myself, either."

"That's not what the stories say," grins Merric.

Seeing Kel's flush, Merric laughs. "You know, we were about to send a courier to Cavall, asking My Lord Wyldon to come talk some sense into your head."

Kel groans, covering her face with her hands, embarrassed, and changes the subject;

"Tell me again about the disappearances."

ttt

Hope has already learned, in the two short weeks that she has been living with Sir Will and Lady Jocelyn, that behind every plain townhome facade, is a vaulted ceiling and large hall dancing hall of unimaginable space. At least, that's the way it is in the Noble's Quarter of Mindelan's Bound.

It's almost inconceivable that, looking from the outside, such rooms fit inside. The first few days that Hope spends exploring the Jesslaw's home - her new home - is filled with disorienting discoveries of hidden staircases and salons with views that don't quite correspond to their location.

Then again, Lady Jocelyn is an actress.

"You look just like your Mother," says yet another aging Lord, at yet another one of Lady Jocelyn's soirees, his comment punctuated by an upward push of his spectacles, his eyes squinting down into her face.

Hope smiles politely and nods obligingly. She's heard this half a thousand times.

"You find Mindelan's Bound to be a nice place, then, eh?" Asks another, slightly younger Lord, leering.

"Mm," says Hope. "Everyone is so... friendly."

Lord 'Join Me In My Boudoir' (Hope has begun nicknaming the Lords to keep them all separate in her mind) smiles encouragingly and Hope tries really hard not to wince.

"Excuse me," she says, turns, and almost collides with Lord Always Hovering.

Lord Always Hovering, who is in actuality Chief Healer Queenscove, is thin and slightly stooped with age. His green eyes twinkle mischievously, lighting up his face, as he smiles at Hope.

"You do, you know," he says, "Look like Keladry."

Hope sighs. "So I've been told."

"You should understand," says Lord Queenscove kindly. "It's a bit of a shock, seeing a young likeness of your mother walking around this city, of all places."

"I do understand," returns Hope, with such a combination of self-sacrifice and weariness that can only be achieved by a fifteen year old girl.

"It will pass," Lord Queenscove tells Hope, patting her shoulder awkwardly.

A lump forms in Hope's throat and she is unsure how to articulate her feelings. As much as it irritates her to hear the patronizing comments, when it stops, that will be another piece of her mother, gone.

_In the 492nd year of the Human Era, the City in the North known as New Hope was renamed Mindelan's Bound by the Crown, in honour of it's founding Knight Commander, the Lady Knight Sir Keladry of Mindelan (deceased), faithful servant of the Tortallan throne, Protector of the Small._

**Bound, noun:**  
The external or limiting line, either real or imaginary, of any object or space; that which limits or restrains, or within which something is limited or restrained; limit; confine; extent; boundary.

* * *

_Fenella '09_


	2. Part II

**Postcards From New Hope**  
(Or _How to Grow a Woman from the Ground_)

Part II

The young man staring at Hope is dressed uniformly in chestnut and a deep, hunter green. These are the colours worn by serving attendants in Sir Will and Lady Jocelyn's household on any given evening.

"Didn't your Mother teach you not to stare?" asks Hope crossly, regretting her rudeness even as the words leave her mouth.

"Didn't yours teach you any manners?" The young man, perhaps a few years older than Hope is herself, archly raises an eyebrow.

After almost taking a step backwards in surprise, Hope raises her chin and returns his stare. The server holds forward the tray he is holding; long stemmed glasses with deep red liquid.

"More wine, My Lady?" He asks, his tone decidedly flippant.

With her mouth pursed, Hope reaches forward and takes a glass. Common sense says she should leave it at that, speak her thanks and return to the guests.

But, "My Mother is dead," says Hope leadingly, her eyes searching the boy's face for traces of recognition. It's not conceit; she's grown up in a world where everyone seems to know her - and if not, her mother - instinctively. Sometimes Hope thinks that other people know her better than she knows herself.

But to Hope's amazement, the boy _nods enthusiastically_. "Yes, I know."

Deciding that this is her moment to make an affronted exit - Lady Jocelyn has been rubbing off on her already, Ma and Pa would be shocked at her dramatics - Hope gathers her skirts with her empty left hand, and begins to move away.

"Wait," says the server hurriedly. "You really don't recognize me?"

Hope slowly turns back round, slightly peeved that her dramatic effect is ruined, to face the young man. She scrutinizes him from head to toe. He's tall and lean, with long limbs, light brown hair cropped short and an expressive mouth. Hope feels, as she often has since her arrival in Mindelan's Bound, that she's been through this before.

Staring at the server, Hope can remember the itchy fabric of her Mother's riding breeches against her palms, her face, as she peeks around at the city children who are as bold as brass. The memory comes with a pack of others; tearing across Market Square in the crisp, but sunny fall days, chasing down boys and girls to tag, laughing with glee all the while, and playing pretend in the King's Own stable lofts.

The image that sticks in Hope's mind, though, is one of water. She remembers sitting on her hands, circulation draining, feet dangling, and across from two boys in a boat. Their father stands at the stern, large and steady, hauling on a fishing net. Seagulls are swooping overhead, looking for lunch.

Hope recalls looking down at her clothing, a fussy black dress, strange next to the boys' practical layers. She'd covered the dress, later that day, with relief and a borrowed sweater that went down to her knees. The man had patiently rolled up the sleeves until she could use her hands, and tousled her mousey brown hair.

In front of Hope now was a younger, narrower version of the man in her memory. She thinks back to the boys in the boat with dawning realization. The elder boy in her memory of the boat, is all practicality and kindness. The other, though, is accompanied by a certain sense of mischief and recklessness.

_"Strahan?"_

He grins. "At your service."

Now it's Hope's turn to stare; it's strange and overwhelming to think that the people from her early childhood - which is another world entirely - might be wandering around Tortall. And in plain sight, like real living, breathing people.

"What are you doing here?" Is the question that comes out of Hope's mouth, eventually, in a jumbled mess.

The boy, Strahan, Hope corrects herself, shrugs. "Lady Jocelyn knows that a life in theatre doesn't pay the bills - she's kind enough to give me work here, when she can."

"You're a _player_?"

Strahan smiles at Hope's wide-eyed incredulity and shifts from one foot to the other. "Amongst other things."

"Like what?" asks Hope, excitedly. "Do you still fish with your Da?"

"Well," says Strahan, almost apologetically. "Fishing is more Jorge's thing than mine."

"Jorge!" Hope claps her hands over her mouth, surprised by how loud the name came out, glances around at the guest who are beginning to stare, and then lowers them carefully, grinning at Strahan. "He's still here too?"

"Where else would he go?" asks Strahan, smirking.

"Oh," says Hope, at a loss.

And then, "Will you take me to see them? Your family? When you're done work, I mean. Or another time, when you're not busy."

Strahan laughs, puts down his tray and sends a furtive glance in Lady Jocelyn's direction before tilting his head towards the server's entrance.

"C'mon, let's go."

Hope blinks, and pushes a stray curl out of her face. "Won't you... I mean I know I'll get in trouble." She sends her own furtive glance towards Sir Will, and then looks down.

"And I'm hardly dressed for-"

Here Strahan interrupts, flapping at hand at her. "Excuses. Are you coming or not?"

Hope sighs, hesitating for a minute, and thinks about the book of letters tucked under her mattress upstairs.

"Of course I am, silly."

ttt

Hope feels bold, and not quite like herself, as she walks through the dark streets with Strahan at her side. Mindelan's Bound is quiet at night, even in the summer. Even with it's sizeable population of ex-convicts, the city has one of the lowest crime rates in Tortall, but Sir Will and Lady Jocelyn will, no doubt, have some choice words for Hope about strange men and nighttime excursions.

The merriment of the summering nobles is forced indoors, unlike in the South, by a cool climate and vicious blackflies. Orange light spills forth from the street-side windows and mixes with the dancing yellow in the gas-lit lamps. Hope marvels at the street lanterns, so unlike anything she's encountered growing up in Jesslaw. It's as though each box holds a star for safe-keeping.

When she tells Strahan as much, he throws his head back and laughs loudly, though not unkindly, and Hope falls silent, feeling very much the backwards country girl.

He leads her down the hill, through the merchant district, past the city councils, and into the poorer quarters of the city. The buildings grow shorter and aging wood is covered by chipped, but brightly coloured, paint; the last line of defense against the elements.

Children tear through the streets here, running wild, though their adults are tucked inside, weary after a long day's work. Some of the children stop to stare at Hope, and one small girl skips beside Strahan, sending Hope a side-long glance.

"I like your dress," she says after a minute of awkward silence.

"Thank you," replies Hope, self-consciously tugging her wrap tight around her shoulders. Next to her soft custom-fitted, grey-blue dress, the child's own tunic and skirt look like rags. "I like your skipping rope."

The girl beams. "Me too. Are you any good?"

"I don't want to brag," grins Hope, "But I was the best in all of Jesslaw."

Strahan and the girl share a look.

"What was that about?" Hope glances up at Strahan, inquiringly.

"Well," says Strahan reluctantly, and it's Hope's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Cat got your tongue, my good Sir?" she teases.

Strahan laughs. "I am certainly no knight. And you, My Lady, are not in Jesslaw anymore."

Hope stops in the middle of the street to kick off her insensible shoes; her audience gawks. She smiles at them. "Of course, its been a while..."

"What do you think you're doing," sighs Strahan. "Hope, _My Lady_."

Hope ignores him and holds her hand out to the little girl. "Give it here."

ttt

Kel has had an overwhelming day, what with her two best friends, her former Knight Master, and her mentor all getting married. She's happy for them, of course, and smiles when the two couples gaze adoringly at their new spouses, tripping over themselves like a bunch of lovelorn puppies (with the notable exception of Buri, who Kel feels sure has several daggers hidden under her gown and boots).

She's sad though, too, and then feels guilty that she can't even enjoy her friends' weddings without making it about her. Sure, she's killed the nasty Scanran mage and saved - some of - her refugees, and she's not even headed for Traitors' Hill. But there's no law that says she's entitled to a love life, too. Still, when Dom winks at her from behind Raoul's back, during a particularly sappy speech, Kel grins back and rolls her eyes.

It's perhaps out of character, but not entirely surprising then, that Kel finds herself, in the early hours of the morning, pressed up against a wall in the soldiers' barracks, one of Dom's hands on her hip, just underneath her tunic, the other on the small of her back.

To be honest, Kel isn't overly impressed when Dom takes his tongue out of her mouth and steps back, worry written all over his face.

"Seriously?" she asks.

Dom crosses his arms over his chest.

Kel sighs. "What is it?"

After a few moments, Dom says, "I might as well tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"I made a promise."

This can't be good. "To whom did you make a promise, Dom?"

"Neal."

Kel closes her eyes in dread. "When was this?"

"The day that Lord Raoul asked you to be his squire," admits Dom.

"I told him," continues Dom, with no regard for the sinking feeling in Kel's stomach, "That I'd never take advantage of you."

Kel's eyes snap open incredulously. "Seriously, Dom?"

The Sergeant shrugs defensively. "You were young, I was older, Neal was worried."

"He _should _be worried," mutters Kel, quietly furious.

"As it was, you had more than enough on your plate. Without men stepping in, trying to mess things up," Dom points this out, in what he seems to think is a rational manner.

"My whole life," says Kel, "Has been men stepping in, trying to mess things up."

"Kel," says Dom apologetically.

He reaches out towards her, but she's had enough.

"Don't bother," says Kel. "I can take care of myself."

ttt

Strahan can't stop laughing as he digs around in his pocket for his door key.

"The look on your face," he exclaims. "When you realized that your skirts were stopping the rope from turning, was priceless."

Hope rolls her eyes. "I'm glad you find it amusing."

"Amusing?" Repeats Strahan, his eyes shining with mirth. "I thought you were going to tear them off, right then and there."

Hope giggles a little. It's nice to be around someone who laughs so much.

As Strahan reaches out to put his key in the lock, the front door to his house swings open. A man - the man from the boat, older now - beams out at Hope and his son.

"We've been expecting you," he says, standing back to make room for them.

"How did you know I was coming?" asks Hope, at a complete loss.

The man smiles kindly. "My wife knows these things."

"You probably don't remember an old man like me," he continues. "I'm Tomas."

Hope smiles up at him. "I do remember you, you know."

Tomas takes a moment to glow before he turns, calls over his shoulder "Irnai, she's here!"

Strahan ushers Hope into the home's small kitchen where a middle-aged woman with her greying hair swept elegantly into a bun is sitting, darning a pair of socks.

"Hope, my love," she says. "Come and have a cup of tea."

ttt

"Your Ma is amazing," Hope tells Strahan later that evening, as he walks her back uptown, to the Jesslaw's city home. She can barely stop herself from talking. "Your Da, too. I'm only sorry that I didn't get to see Jorge."

A somewhat subdued Strahan shrugs. "Perhaps another time."

"Right," says Hope. "Tell your Ma that I said 'thank you' a million times."

Strahan grins in spite of himself. "Actually, at this point, I think that you may have."

Hope is feeling comfortable enough with Strahan to elbow him in the side.

"Ow, Hope, that hurt!"

"Who's the tough city-boy now?"

Strahan turns to look at her, eyebrows hovering somewhere around the middle of his forehead. "I sincerely hope that it's not you."

Hope sobers. "Strahan," she says. "Can I ask you a favour?"

"Well that would depend," answers Strahan. "On whether you're planning to attack me again."

"I didn't attack you!"

Strahan coughs pointedly.

"Alright," concedes Hope, "I promise that I won't elbow you again."

"Okay," says Strahan nobly. "Apology accepted."

"I didn't apologize."

Strahan sniffs. "I'm overlooking the fact that you grew up motherless, and thus, were never taught any manners."

"I had a Mother," argues Hope, indignant.

"Sorry," backpedals Strahan. "I probably shouldn't tease."

"It's not that," says Hope, trying to explain. "You just don't understand. Lord Owen and Lady Margarry took me in as their daughter, not just their ward. They're my Ma and Pa, too."

"Oh."

"And I love them like the family that they've been to me. Will is like a great, big, annoying older brother," Hope trails off.

"But," prompts Strahan, reading between the lines.

"Is it awful," asks Hope, "That I want to find my real father?"

Strahan stops halfway up the hill and Hope pauses too. She's grateful for a chance to catch her breath, even if the night air is cold, and her fingers are slowly turning numb. He fidgets with the ring on his right index finger; a small gold band with a ruby in the middle.

"Hope," he begins slowly, choosing his words so that they won't offend. "Do you know who your father _is_?"

"No," says Hope quite simply. "That's why I need your help."

ttt

Will is pacing by the fireplace, his wife snapping at him to stand still, when a trio of officers from the City Guard finally find Hope, half a block away from the Jesslaw's townhome.

"Are you Lady Hope?" asks one guard, wearily.

"Yes," says Hope. "I am."

"Next time," says Chief of Guards Tobeis Boon. "Please consider leaving a note."

ttt

Kel has only ever climbed the New Hope watchtower a handful of times. The fear of heights that paralyzed her in youth is no longer all-consuming, but she's not about to start building treehouses for the sheer joy.

The watchtower, once upon a time a fair walk from the village has been swallowed up by growth and expansion. It's awe-inspiring, thinks Kel staring down at the roofs of houses, that when she first came upon this piece of land, none of this had been here.

The theatre is a bit of an eyesore, to be sure, but that was a battle that she had a lost; and a constant reminder that she could no longer protect them all - the southerners and traders, nobles and artisans - who had chosen to move here, pushing beyond the logistics of existing defense.

Of course, that doesn't mean that Keladry wouldn't defend this city with her life.

And as the story goes, well, that's exactly how the story goes.

* * *

_Fenella '09_


	3. Part III

**Postcards From New Hope**  
(Or _How to Grow a Woman from the Ground_)

Part III

Inside the makeshift temple there's small relief to be found from the late summer heat. Walls of clay put distance between Kel and the sounds of a growing village - they're building on a tight schedule, winter comes early this far north - and there aren't any windows. Though the sun tries to creep under the doors at the back, the only real source of light comes from four candles burning white at the front of the chapel.

In the flickering dark, the temple seems vast.

Sluggish and unable to think of anything besides the weather, Kel wonders if summer had ever been this unforgiving in the South. She closes her eyes and tries to recall how Corus had felt at this time of the year.

There should be bright fabrics and smoked fish making up the city market, crowded streets and outdoor entertainment, but there is nothing save for an uneasy sense of loss. Kel tries to picture the sharp incline to the Palace or how, when her thighs began to burn, half-way up the hill, she would pick up the pace in defiance of every skeptic she knew; listing them by name, silently and in turn, beginning with the King.

Those memories are just beyond her periphery, and all that remains are a string of half-forgotten anecdotes - childhood fights about which Kel thinks she's probably supposed to feel more strongly than she does - long since carried away by an army of new worries. Gods, its been nine years that she's spent up here. Fighting wars and stray raiding parties, building safety and rebuilding hope.

There's another flare of panic that quickly settles into Kel's bank of constant worry. The fortifications aren't done, it isn't safe here, there are too many people. There's no way that she can possibly keep them all alive.

Finally opening her eyes and fixating on the burning candles, Kel thinks wistfully of Haven, a village designed first and foremost for defense, and the false comfort of it's protective walls. She's not prepared for the shock of light from behind, or the self-directed disgust that follows - why hadn't she heard someone at the Temple doors?

Kel turns and when she sees the newcomer, relaxes, simultaneously preparing for a fight. Even without the help of the dim candlelight, she can tell who it is. He's framed in the doorway and standing, silhouetted by the sun.

"A little bit dramatic, don't you think?" asks Kel with a forced smile.

"I could ask you the same thing," says Lerant and she can practically hear him sneering.

Kel sighs. "I don't know what you're talking about." This is a lie; she has a pretty good idea.

Lerant walks into the chapel and the heavy wooden door slams shut. Kel's eyes are forced to readjust and if he weren't Lerant, if he were better at tracking, Kel wouldn't know where he is.

As it is, he manages to stumble over something - Gods be damned if she knows what, the chapel is almost empty - and follows that with a small litany of curses. Kel bites back a grin and refuses to face him. He's standing two or three feet to her left.

"We're going to have to ask Corus for help," says Kel after a moment.

"Do you often talk to cities?"

Kel opens her mouth to speak, but Lerant waves down her, doubtless, biting retort. "You're changing the subject. Don't distract me with our mutual dislike of the crown."

"Dangerous words coming from an Eldorne," says Kel, meeting his teasing remark with little or no humour, and almost immediately wishes that she hadn't.

She hears Lerant's sharp intake of breathe and turns her head, squinting to meet his gaze in the poor light. What Kel reads in Lerant's familiar brown eyes tells her that it's not okay, but he gets it, and that he's worried.

"What is it Lerant," Kel asks pointedly, interrupting the awkward stretch of silence.

"So," drawls Lerant after a beat, launching into what he's obviously come here to say. "You come down from the watchtower looking like death, ride alone up through Flyndan's Pass and make your way through the town, barely saying two words to your adoring masses. Who, by the way, are frighteningly capable of coping without your constant supervision - although you'd never know it, what with the way they carry on. Next you spend a few hours with the village council, until they ultimately exit in poorly concealed hysteria. And then, you drag yourself in here like some wild animal hauling it's carcass off to die alone."

He's always had a way with words.

"Are you quite finished?" asks Kel. "I think I've got a few years left in me, before that happens. Connor stayed at the tower to plot out signal lines and Gods, do I ever not need to explain myself to you. Are you following me again?"

Lerant draws himself up to his full height; he tends to hunch inwards, as though to protect himself from the world's collective scrutiny, and it makes Kel forget that he's actually taller than she is.

"People are worried," says Lerant. "I'm worried."

Kel softens. "I'm fine."

"You are not," disagrees Lerant. "The only things keeping you from falling over are one, your fancy Knight's training and two, the salt in your own sweat."

"That's disgusting," groans Kel, and lets Lerant wrap his arms around her despite the heat. She rests her head on the rough material of his tunic.

His shirt is scratchy and, like everyone else who's taken a turn working on the canal, he's caked in a thick layer of mud.

"I thought you were okay with the height," prompts Lerant. "Mithros Kel, we all know that you love to torture yourself, but this is madness."

"It's fine," answers Kel. "It's just the heat with the stairs. I stopped halfway down and looked. And, well, that was a mistake. The logistics of defending this place, if it ever gets finished, are a nightmare."

"Besides," Lerant continues as if she hadn't voiced everyone's worst concerns. "There's a whole regiment of youngish, impressionable, single, noble men wandering around out there who would gladly climb a watchtower to win your favour."

Kel snorts disbelievingly and Lerant's grip tightens, pulling her closer.

"You're possessive," says Kel thickly. Lerant's fingers are lazily tracing circles on the back of her neck, coaxing her into a half-sleep.

"And you need to eat more," says Lerant.

"Everyone here needs to eat more." Kel thinks she might be whining. "We need to save for winter."

"Mm," says Lerant. "Like squirrels."

Kel laughs.

"Starving yourself, my darling Keladry, won't put ten pounds on each undernourished child."

"It might," says Kel and wishes for a second that they could stay like this; that a few minutes from now no-one would come looking for her, half apologetic and half hopeful, expecting her to save them all, giving the King a reason to keep her out of sight and out of mind.

"Three meals times three hundred and sixty-five? That's a lot of food," Kel points out, though she isn't wholly serious.

She feels sick with guilt for wishing what that things could stay the like this, the same as they are. Things have got to change, and it's her job to make sure that they do. Her people deserve better.

"Oh Kel," says Lerant, straight-faced. "I don't know why they trust you so much, but they do. If you told them to line up and take turns eating your meals, they would, thinking all the while that you had a master plan."

"Lerant," sighs Kel. It's not a very stern warning.

"New work detail!" says Lerant to an imaginary audience, his tone holding a certain amount of snide glee. "Sign up for Kill our Fearless Leader Duty!"

Kel smiles up at him, "I thought you were fielding that one on your own."

"It's a hard job," concedes Lerant. "More than one man can accomplish in a lifetime."

Kel loves Lerant, best she knows how, for everything that he isn't saying.

And then he grins, slow but wicked. "Should I have the clerks draw up a schedule?"

ttt

Hope waits in the foyer of the playhouse, after the night's show is over. The audience, a veritable mixture of Lords and Ladies, merchants and commoners, spill out onto the streets of the Lower City, chatting wistfully about Lady Jocelyn's latest venture; a play about a Yamani princess (played by Lady Jocelyn) who runs away with her common-born lover (Kiersted Ironarm, the stage-name of the Miller's son, Kibby Stryker) who, ultimately, dies from a snake bite. The princess, left alone with her grief, takes her own life and is destined to walk the Island for all eternity, bringing misery to those unfortunate enough cross her path.

Hope stands to one side, leaning against a large pillar, and surveys the crowd.

"That was a happy play," Hope tells Strahan sarcastically when he jogs over from across the entrance hall, traces of stage paint still on his face. "I especially liked the part where Jocelyn seduced and pushed you off the cliff. Your scream was definitely blood-curling."

Strahan poses dramatically, sticking his nose into the air. "I don't expect you to understand art."

Hope snickers, earning herself a dark look from Strahan.

"Did you want my help or not?"

"Sorry," says Hope, not bothering to wipe the grin off of her face. "Yes, absolutely."

ttt

The actual theatre, when Strahan creaks open the door, is empty and dark. Without sparing a thought, Hope snaps her fingers; warm orange flames, mixed with yellow spring to life in the lanterns that dot the walls of the hall.

When Hope looks at Strahan, she is surprised to see him eyeing her curiously, fear flickering across his face. His eyes, outlined with a thick black pencil look huge in the shadowed hall.

"You're gifted," he says.

Hope is about to make a joke about how he can sure confuse a Lady, insulting her ability to understand art and flattering her intelligence all in the space of five minutes, but Strahan's tone tells her that it would fall flat.

"Yes," she says, cautiously. "I am."

"Do you think your father is, too?"

Hope shrugs. "I'm not sure. Yes, maybe? Mother wasn't, and none of her family are - that's one of the reasons I left Mindelan. Will's gifted as well, and so Ma and Da had a mage living at Jesslaw to teach him, since neither of them have gifts. And, well, I don't have much skill..." she trails off, aware that she's rambling.

Strahan tears his gaze from Hope's face and turns towards the stage.

"I just wouldn't go around doing things like that, is all."

"Like lighting lanterns?" asks Hope, perplexed.

"Look," says Strahan, sitting backwards on a bench - Hope takes a seat across from him, an aisle back. "Things are different here. People don't trust magic."

"But that's ridiculous," argues Hope. "The whole city reeks of magic. And everyone loves Duke Nealan."

"Just be careful."

Hope looks at Strahan inquiringly and he holds her gaze until finally she looks away.

"Okay, I will."

"Good," he says. "Now tell me what you know about your father."

ttt

Hope knows the story of how she was born because Da has told it to her on several occasions. Da knows the story because he was there. It goes like this:

The First Company of the King's Own is camped just outside Cattle Hill; they've been helping the villagers cope with rising water levels and a crumbling flood wall.

Owen and Wyldon, Will's Grandda, are there too, shoveling debris and wading through mud up to their mid-thighs. It's not a glorious job, but someone has to get it done.

Hope's mother Keladry is, by all accounts, back in New Hope, easily an hour's ride away, ten days overdue with her baby.

As it turns out, all accounts are wrong.

Wyldon pauses, a hand on his back - he's not as strong as he was, once upon a time - and takes pause, resting his forearms on the sturdy shovel. Owen, a few feet away hear's his former knight-master bark "Mindelan!" and thinks ruefully that physical strength might not be all that Wyldon is losing with age.

"Jesslaw, My Lord" Owen reminds Wyldon gently, trailing off in disbelief as he follows the older man's dismayed gaze.

Keladry of Mindelan, Lady Knight, is waddling unceremoniously towards them, a furiously determined look on her usually calm features.

"Mindelan," repeats Wyldon. "What in the name of all things holy are you doing here?"

"Helping, My Lord," Keladry says, her voice unusually meek.

"No," says Wyldon, livid. "You are pregnant. _Over nine months pregnant_. You are giving me a headache, girl, just looking at you. You should be in bed."

Owen can practically hear Wyldon's teeth grinding together.

Keladry glares at her mentor, Owen's father-in-law. "I am not a girl, My Lord, I am forty-four years old, a Knight of the Relam, and I am absolutely sick of sitting in bed as if I am unable to help the people I have sworn to serve."

Wyldon's gaze softens, but holds out his hard firmly. "Give me the shovel, Keladry."

"No," retorts Keladry. And then she gasps in shock. "Oh, um, okay, here it is."

Owen eyes his friend skeptically. "I don't think she's talking about the shovel anymore."

Wyldon winces and hobbles to Keladry's side, "It's going to be alright," he says soothingly before turning on Owen.

"Jesslaw," he barks, "Get a healer."

"Yes," says Owen quickly. "Going, now."

"I want Neal," insists Keladry.

"Well," Wyldon tells her, as he would talk to a foolish page. "You should have thought of that before riding out into the middle of nowhere. The Own has excellent healers."

"There are no women in the King's Own," protests Keladry, her hazel eyes wide in horror. "Owen, I swear to The Great Mother Goddess, find me someone who has delivered a baby before or else I will _never speak to you again_."

ttt

Kel sits propped up in the bed of an elderly refugee woman, Wyldon and Owen perched on the edge, her new baby girl in her arms. The baby is so small, so perfect.

"Have you thought what you'll call her?" asks Wyldon.

Kel looks up, a quiet smile on her face. "It never occurred to me to pick a girl's name; I was sure it would be a boy."

Owen grins. "It never occurred to you?"

"I know," says Kel. She sounds worried. "It's just, I've spent my whole life around boys and men. I don't know about girls."

"That's hardly true," says Wyldon, tucking a piece of stray hair behind Kel's ear. "I've never met a finer girl than the one who is sitting right here, in front of me."

A slow, stunned smile creeps over Kel's face and she beams at Wyldon.

"So Jesslaw," she says after a moment of silence. "Any ideas for a name?"

"Oh, no," says Wyldon. "Don't let him choose. He named my grandson Willow."

Owen protests, "After you."

"My name," the older man raises his eyebrows. "Is Wyl-don, not Will-ow."

Owen pouts. "Wyldon is just a little old-fashioned, is all. And Margarry wanted it too."

"What about Ilane?" asks Wyldon, ignoring his son-in-law.

Kel shakes her head. "There are already Ilane, Alayna and little Eleanor running around Mindelan."

Wyldon winces.

"I guess Alanna is out of the question, then," says Owen.

"Good thing, too," says Wyldon. "I've always been a fan of the classics."

"Like what?" asks Kel, intrigued enough to ignore the dig at her lifelong hero.

"Rosemary," says Wyldon fondly. "Or Agnes."

Owen and Kel exchange glances, Kel wrinkling her nose in disgust, and Owen hiding a smile behind his hands.

The baby yawns.

"What," says Owen at long last. "What about Hope."

Keladry stares down at her baby girl, who blinks back. Kel smiles.

"Hope," she says, testing out the feel of the name on her tongue.

Wyldon, too, is smiling. "New Hope."

Kel glances up at them, scandalized. "I can't call my child after a city. Can I?"

Owen raises his eyebrows. "I couldn't possibly think of a better way to start your daughter's life, than to name her after, collectively, say a few thousand people who love her mother unconditionally."

"I'm pretty sure there are a few in there who hate me," retorts Kel.

"And you wouldn't trade those ones, either," points out Wyldon.

"No," sighs Kel, after a moment in which she envisions herself gleefully sending several individuals out to sea on a raft. "I wouldn't."

ttt

A tall, flustered man bursts into the hedgewitch's shanty, robes billowing wildly in a gust of dramatic wind.

"Kel," says Neal in a panic, obviously not registering the bundle cradled carefully in his best friend's arms. "Don't worry. Everything is going to be okay."

* * *

_Fenella '09_


	4. Part IV

**Postcards From New Hope**  
(Or _How to Grow a Woman from the Ground_)

Part IV

Hope slips out into the night.

The streets, familiar now, hold different secrets in the dark. Her doubts are lost to the rhythm of her shoes against the cobblestone streets.

Proper young ladies don't go galavanting on their own. Proper young ladies don't sneak out of their brother's houses to slip down to lower city taverns. Proper young ladies don't conceal their identity beneath worn woolen cloaks to solicit unsavoury gossip.

Hope walks faster; it isn't that she doesn't know these rules or that she doesn't care (Hope cares more than she would be willing to admit), but Hope has never been allowed the privilege of being a proper young lady, so there is no reason why should she begin to concern herself now.

Her pulse quickens when a cat darts in front of her path, and settles. Hope has lived the privileged life of a noble, certainly, and knows the comforts that her various titles provide. She knows better, though, than to naively assume that those titles will lead her to the same roads as her foster siblings. For as long as Hope can recall, there has been an invisible and yet unmistakable X above her head.

This girl has questionable pedigree (do not let your noble born children play with her), X.

Boys, you will not wed this girl, X.

This girl's mother had questionable morals (it runs in her blood you know), X.

Whisper loudly when she enters a room (she won't notice), X.

Oh the Poor Dear, X.

How fortunate the Jesslaws took her in, what does a woman like that know about raising a daughter? X.

I heard that her father is one of those ex-convicts up in Mindelan's Bound, X.

It's worse than that, her mother had an affair with Sir Queenscove, the slut, X.

It's clear to Hope that her mother did not wish for her to have an easy path in this world.

As for her father, Hope can only assume that he doesn't know. She tells herself this because if, somehow, he were to know and be alive, and still didn't care to make himself known, Hope has no desire to meet the man.

In her heart, Hope knows that this is a lie.

ttt

Lady Yukimi of Queenscove is the first noblewoman - Sir Keladry is the exception, of course - to live in New Hope. She is six months pregnant and hasn't seen her husband in half that time when she appears to commission the construction of a townhome, ignoring Sir Nealan's protests.

"I will not have our children grow up in your absence!" she argues determinedly in the foyer of the infirmary, medical clerks trying not to stare.

"And what of your obligations to the Princess?" asks Neal.

"Shinko has tasked me with participation in Her Majesty the Queen's pet project."

Nealan, trying to look exasperated, looks thrilled instead. "And that would be?"

"I'm opening a school, bringing literacy to the North."

Later Sir Nealan will make wry comments about New Hope's commoners being trouble enough without education. For now, he takes his wife into his arms and lets out the breath he didn't know he has been holding.

Shortly after the Queenscove residence is completed, other noblewomen follow suit, moving North to be with their husbands - some seasonally, others for the entire year. The sudden immigration increases the demand for merchants, artisans and strains, before breaking, the barter system which has served the refugee camp well.

Nobles settle into a life that, while having considerably less comforts than those to which they are accustomed, is extravagant compared to that of their neighbours down the hill.

Within two years of Lady Yukimi's arrival, New Hope has tripled in size.

ttt

Waiting for Strahan to finish his shift serving patrons, Hope takes a seat at the bar. Her hair hangs down in a single braid, as is the style for young city women. It makes her feel ugly, having her hair unpinned, and she's startled when a young man leans on the bar beside her.

"Hello beautiful," says the boy. "Where's your husband?"

Hope stares at him, wide-eyed. "I'm not married."

"Well," he says. "You're too young to be here alone, and too pretty to be unmarried, at your age. Unless, maybe, you're a whore?"

The man leers at her unkindly and Hope digs her fingernails into her palm to avoid striking him, or doing something else that she might regret later.

"You're disgusting," spits out Hope, when she manages to find her words. "And drunk. I pray - for her sake - that you don't have a wife of your own."

"Pray a little harder," sneers the man. "And you'll be ready for a nice life in the convent; it's the best that you'll ever do. Mindelan's Hope, you don't fool anyone. We know exactly who you are."

Hope stares at the man's retreating back, at a loss. The bottom of her stomach is sinking, and she can't help but wonder what has just happened. The man stumbles over to his friends, one of whom laughs, and slaps him on the back.

The elderly barman, Strahan's employer Gregor, has been hovering nearby. His eyes flash angrily, and he pushes a steaming mug towards Hope, startling her out of her thoughts.

"Carlan and his friends are a bad bunch, but he's right that you shouldn't be here alone."

Hope looks the barman square in the eye. "I'm not scared by a group of mean drunks. Could I get a pint of the house ale, please?"

The barman winces, rubbing at his beard. "It's more than a few mean drunks, and I wouldn't serve you if I had any sense of my own."

"You know that the reason I like you, Gregor, is because you _don't_ have any sense. And what do you mean it's more?"

Gregor shrugs, almost apologetically. "Most of of us are loyal to the memory of your Ma, you know that I am. She did well by us, gave us more than we could have hoped for. But there are some that, well, the hatred runs deep."

Hope shakes her head. "I don't understand."

"There are some things that no matter how much you think them through, won't ever make much sense," concedes Gregor. And then he nods over Hope's shoulder and groans. "Like your friend, there, I won't ever-"

Hope turns to look as Strahan taps the man, Carlan, on the shoulder. Carlan turns to meet Strahan's fist before the three friends pounce, dragging Strahan downward as a chair breaks with a sharp _crack!_

Hope stares, appalled.

And then she sighs, springing to her feet as Gregor wades into the brawl.

ttt

"You idiot," scolds Hope, pressing a tankard of cold ale against Strahan's swelling cheekbone. "What did you think you were doing?"

Strahan winces at the cold, prods gently at the bruised corner of his mouth "Defending your honour."

Hope laughs incredulously and Gregor makes himself busy in the kitchen, emptying crates of wine, trying very hard to appear as though he is not listening.

"I don't have any honour," says Hope. "Weren't you listening?"

"Carlan is a jerk," says Strahan. "I've been waiting for excuse to do that since we were six and he threw my ball into the river."

"Well in another fifteen years, when you get the sudden urge to attack four men by yourself again, don't do it on my account." Hope presses the tankard into Strahan's hand and stands back scowling, arms crossed over her chest.

Strahan eyes her warily. "You have a funny way of showing gratitude."

Hope's scowl deepens. "Gregor, I think I hear someone calling for you at the bar."

"Lady Hope," the barman protests, "I didn't hear anything."

"She's right." Strahan's eyes are locked on Hope's, not giving an inch. "I heard something too."

Gregor frowns. "Alright, an old man like myself can take a hint. But you had better not finish him off, Lady. He's fragile and I don't want to be the one to tell Irnai that her little boy isn't long for this realm."

"Don't worry," says Hope as Gregor heads for the door and Strahan takes a seat on an upturned crate. "I'll tell his Ma."

"I don't see what the big deal is," Strahan is saying angrily when the door slams shut, leaving them alone. "You're overreacting."

Hope glares at him. "I _hate_ fights. People throwing punches. It's stupid."

Strahan gapes. "_You_ got a few good throws in, if I recall correctly."

"You've hit your head, you don't know what you're talking about."

"I know what I saw. Elstrin will be limping for a month. And Carlan-"

"He was about to club you with the leg of a chair! Just because you know how to hurt someone, doesn't mean that you should. There are better ways."

"Like what?" snorts Strahan. "Talking was working so well for you."

Hope motions wordlessly, frustrated. "Boys!"

"Men," corrects Strahan, indignantly.

"See, this is why things are the way they are. Think about how many fathers and sons would be at home - instead of dead on battlefields - if people found a better way to solve their problems than hacking at each other with spears and arrows."

Strahan exhales, lowering the tankard that he's been holding to his head. "Oh," he says, finally understanding, feeling a fool. He reaches for Hope and she lets him pull her down beside him, tucking her head on his shoulder, under his chin. "And mothers, right?"

There's a beat of silence then, "It's stupid, I know."

"No," says Strahan. "It's really not."

ttt

"I like being single," says Kel.

"Mmm," replies Dom half-heartedly. He's reading a weapon's inventory at her desk and she's in the chair opposite, stewing over Yuki's latest dinner party.

"I like the fact that I can make decisions for me, and not have to worry about how they might affect someone else's plans."

"I can tell," remarks Dom absently. "You sound perfectly content."

Kel fidgets with her hair, tying it up into a horsetail. "It's just that..."

"You hate being the only single noblewoman in the room and can feel them judging you from beneath their perfectly coiffed lashes?" supplies Dom.

A corner of Kel's mouth twitches upwards. "Yes. Well, not all of them. But yes."

Dom sighs and drops the report on her desk. "And you tell yourself that you're living a different sort of life than they are, but then you wonder why you can't have both?"

Kel grins. "Captain, I had no idea you had such inner pain."

"I know," he retorts. "It's a miracle I can make it out of bed in the morning."

There is a reflective silence.

"Raoul and Buri used to have an agreement..." says Kel suggestively, drumming her fingers on her desk.

Dom bursts out laughing. "Love, that ship sailed a long time ago."

"Oh come on," says Kel, pleading. "We protect each other from judging noblewomen, keep each other from falling asleep when they coo over their darling babies..."

Dom stands up and walks around the desk, until he's in front of Kel. Theatrically, he takes her hands in his own. "But Kel, it would all be a lie. You deserve better."

Kel rolls her eyes. "Does this stuff actually work on women?"

"Yes, without a doubt." Dom smiles, dropping her hands. "Besides, consider the last time that I made a move on you. You ignored me for seven months afterwards."

"It was six and a half, you over-dramatic fool." Kel stifles a yawn and picks up the papers that Dom has dropped.

"I had to enlist the help of my men to get you to talk to me."

"Trick me into talking to you, you mean."

"There may have been some trickery involved," he concedes.

"Dom!" Kel looks up at him. "You faked your own death."

Dom smirks. "Have you considered Eldorne?"

"What?" says Kel, not following the abrupt change of the subject.

"Have you considered," repeats Dom, somewhat slower this time. "Eldorne?"

"Lerant?" Kel squeaks.

"No silly, the more attractive Eldorne that roams the prison tower in Corus."

Kel punches Dom gently on the shoulder.

"Ouch! Kel! See if I ever dispense relationship advice again."

"You call this relationship advice?"

Dom's voice softens. "He's crazy about you, Keladry."

"What?" Kel's eyebrows inch upwards.

"When Lerant gives someone his love, he gives it without reservation."

"...Huh."

"Find something a little more eloquent to say before you talk to him, yeah?"

"Talk to him?"

"Sometime in the next five years, please."

Something else dawns on Kel. "Wait, you said that I deserve better. What about you, Dom? Are you seeing someone? Do you mean to tell me that you finally found a woman that will put up with you?"

"Charming, Sir."

"Really, if you've found someone, you have to tell me!"

Dom saunters out of her office, flapping a hand in a way that makes him look quite a lot like Neal. "Don't make this about me. Go talk to Eldorne, and try not to say anything hurtful!"

ttt

They are at the corner of Strahan's road when a figure steps out of the fog that is rolling off the river. Hope knows who it is by the way that Strahan straightens, forgets his injuries.

"Hello Strahan," says Jorge, calmly taking in the colourful display on his brother's features. "Lady Hope."

Jorge is tall, and his tan speaks of long hours spent on the river. He's wearing the uniform of a fisherman: muddy canvas overalls, a loose shirt with short cropped sleeves and a a well-worn captain's cap tucked under his arm.

"You should see the other guys," says Strahan, beaming, before Jorge has a chance to ask, and Hope grins in spite of herself.

She's a little surprised when the joke falls flat, leaving a silence that stretches echoes through the street. Hope thinks that she can hear someone singing; women, in the distance.

Jorge looks at his brother and shakes his head. "You'd better get inside and let Ma fuss. I'll take the Lady home."

Strahan seems about to argue, but he nods instead, shooting a smile at Hope. "I'm taking a vow of strict non-violence Hope, I promise."

Hope laughs. "Sure, see you Strahan."

Jorge offers an arm to Hope which she takes, timidly. When she was small, she had been in awe of this older boy. He asks her how she's liking Mindelan's Bound and she admits it's a little lonely; Will has his own family now and there is no replacing the entire Jesslaw clan. Distractedly, Jorge makes a promise to take Hope to the weekend market.

Neither Hope nor Jorge looks back to see Strahan standing alone, staring after them. He looks small, standing in front of the ruins of the old schoolhouse, bruised, and unhappy.

ttt

A reply from Corus arrives in the form of thirteen men, mounted and sporting the insignia of The King's Own. They make a striking image, fresh despite the long journey, laughing and talking amongst themselves as they parade through the city. They all appear younger than Kel, and at least half off them wear the traditional burnoose of the Bazhir people, tied around their waist by a green cord; the colour that in the south, is worn by shamans.

The exception is a young man who rides self-assuredly in front, as though it is his Gods' given right, a blue cord belted casually around his burnoose.

Unlike the other captains in The Own, Jasson of Conté is a knight, a scholar and furthermore, the youngest son of Their Majesties King Jonathan and Queen Thayet.

He has, with the King's blessing, assembled a group of young, single intellectual noblemen. Younger sons, for the most part, who have studied - and excelled - at the Royal University in Corus.

They are: architect, philosopher, lawyer, poet, engineer, geographer, historian, biologist and mathematician. Jasson has also recruited a musician, a shipbuilder and a priest of Mithros to follow his command.

These are the men of the Fourth Company. All of them are mages.

* * *

_Fenella '09_


	5. Part V

**Postcards From New Hope**  
(Or _How to Grow a Woman from the Ground_)

Part V

When Hope is three years old, she makes Keladry promise that they'll go to the Festival.

Kel has had it in her mind to take Hope anyways, but Hope begs for days. She's heard stories from the other children - the ones that come to play from beyond the guardhouse walls - and those stories have ignited a small obsession. All the thoughts that Hope can possibly cram into her child-sized, underdeveloped head, are of the great Festival.

"Mama," she says, because that's what the other children call their mothers. Hope isn't used to being around other children and she wants to be interesting, like them. "How long until Festival time?"

"Three days now," says Kel, smiling down at Hope, her maternal presence a warm yellow fire with flecks of gold, like the sun.

"I want it to be today," says Hope, indignant, though she's long since learned that Kel, not to mention the rest of the world, doesn't ever bend just to suit her deepest desires.

"Jorge and Strahan say that the city will smell good, like roast pig and spring. How can anything smell like spring? And that the ferrymen give rides for free."

"Mmm, it's true what Jorge and Strahan say."

"I want a ride today."

"Oh my love," says Mother, her large, rough hand closing around Hope's own. "You have to wait, just like everyone else."

"Mama," says Hope, turning over a heavy thought in her mind, and trying not to stumble over its articulation. "If waiting makes everyone so unhappy, why don't we have Festival now? Then everyone would be happy."

Mother laughs and leads Hope up the street, towards the large armoury and office building they've tentatively begun to call home. "You won't believe me, but sometimes waiting is half of the fun."

Hope wrinkles her nose in disgust. It's such a stupid, adult thing to say. "Waiting isn't fun."

"It is fun for me, waiting to see what you'll be like when you grow up."

"When I grow up," says Hope, nobly ignoring Mother's sentimentality, "I am going to be a princess and eat lots of cakes all day long."

"You'd better not get too fat, stuffing yourself on sweets," says Kel, the sincerest picture of maternal worry. "Or I won't be able to do this anymore-"

With no warning, Kel scoops her daughter off her feet and tosses the small girl up, high into the air. Ignoring Hope's laughing shrieks, Kel places Hope on her broad shoulders where she eventually settles like a cat, feeling safe and smug.

Or at least that's how Hope recalls that it may have happened. She can't know for certain - she was only three years old.

What she does remember, is feeling tall enough to see straight over the mountains to Scanra. So distant was the ground below, that nothing hurtful could ever reach her.

Sometimes at night, Hope is visited by the memory of unfailing confidence.

ttt

The solid, grey infirmary appears to be the sturdiest structure within the Bounds. Only two stories tall, the ground on which it's built gives the impression of imposing height, and its thick walls are reminiscent of a fortress. Laundry - mostly sheets stripped from the cots inside - flap in the wind, and creep down the hill, like old festive garlands gathering dust in a forgotten attic room, windows open wide.

Hope takes a deep breath and looks up at Strahan, who stares back down at her.

"Ready?" he asks. His voice is full of blatant worry, and his sincerity elicits a small smile from Hope, despite the nerves tumbling around her stomach.

Strahan, Hope is momentarily distracted, looks very much like the young boy she used to know; a bulky woolen tunic, made by Irnai no doubt, and large fisherman's boots add to the effect. It's sensible dress for the damp, cold weather and Hope is very conscious of her own fashionable skirts, and carefully painted face.

A young family exits through the door, half-heartedly giving Hope and Strahan curious glances as they pass, and Hope reaches to grab the door, before it slams.

"I am," she says to Strahan. "Let's go inside."

Strahan's hand curls around Hope's own, warm and comforting as he passes, stooping to avoid the door frame.

ttt

The healer on duty tells them that Duke Nealan is in his study, upstairs.

"If you've come for an appointment," she says, with an air of frightening efficiency, "We've some time two days from now. But if it's urgent-"

"It's not," says Hope and gives the healer her politest smile. "I was really just hoping to talk with the Chief Healer about something, and didn't want to bother him at home."

"Well," says the woman, and frowns disapprovingly. "He's exhausted if you ask me, worked himself half to death, and needs some alone time to recover."

"Oh," says Hope uncertainly. "I can come back, then."

Strahan, who until this point appeared to have been examining the artwork on the walls of the ward, moves to stand just behind Hope. "Sara," he says. "Have you had the fortune yet to meet My Lady Hope of Mindelan?"

The healer, pushing stray wisps of hair back into her matronly bun looks younger and quite pretty, thinks Hope, as she smiles, eyes flickering between them.

"No we haven't met - My Lady."

Sara brusquely offers her right hand, which Hope gladly takes in her own.  
"Just Hope, please," returns the younger girl. "It's nice to meet you."

Sara smiles kindly, if hesitantly, and turns to Strahan.

"And you, Tomas and Irnai Vann's son. What mischief brings you here?"

Strahan manages to look convincingly affronted. "Is that what you think of me?"

The healer rolls her eyes. "Take the back staircase, and don't overstay your welcome."

With a grin, Strahan offers his thanks to Sara, which are waved off with a stern look and threats of what will she will personally do to them if Duke Nealan should faint in mid-afternoon surgery.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," whispers Hope, over her shoulder, as they creep up the rickety stairs.

There's a silence in which she can practically hear him frowning.

"You need to stop apologizing for being who you are."

Hope makes a face. She hates when Strahan acts decades, instead of just a few years, older than her. Especially when he's wrong.

"And stop scowling at me," says Strahan. "Your face will get stuck like that."

ttt

The Vassa River turns from a dark blue on the surface, into a cold, empty black. It's hard to imagine that the river might have a bottom, as the current rushes, often thundering, though the valley.

People often say that at night, in the dark, you can hear singing by the river banks; the voices of women and children. It could be the wind against the water, and the rolling waves that make it seem so.

Rarely is the water calm, but there are those that insist the singing is loudest on the nights when a leisurely paddle is not out of the question, and the ferrymen are joined by a flock of silent, swaying boats.

Of course, there are those that would have you believe the Vassa has claimed one thousand innocent lives. Men, women, children called to the river in the middle of the dark night and incapable of resisting the Vassa's siren song, lulled to sleep by the promise that the river will keep their secrets.

The river isn't so wide that the city stretches across its grasp, and sprawls onto the far bank; tiny cottages dotting the distant landscape.

Perhaps there is someone singing after all, just on the other side of the water.

ttt

It doesn't take long for Kel to decide that she doesn't like Jasson of Conté.

"It's irrational," she tells Lerant, who is blearily stumbling out of his work clothes, into King's Own issued sleepwear. "He's young and smart, and perfectly competent."

Lerant eyes Kel through narrowed eyes, while smothering a yawn. "He reminds you of his father."

"No. Well, yes, how could he not - he looks exactly like him."

"And, also, there's that you like to do everything yourself. It must be hard sharing the command with someone equally efficient."

"I do not!" says Kel indignantly, sitting up in Lerant's cot.

"Shh," placates Lerant. "You'll wake the other men."

"Is that really what you think of me?" whispers Kel.

Lerant climbs into bed beside Kel and kisses her, sweet and lingering.

"That you're loud and have a secret plan to deprive your soldiers of sleep?"

Kel grins in the dark. "No, the other thing."

"Keladry my love, no one is as terrifyingly efficient as you."

Her hands find their way into Lerant's hair, one tracing the stubble across his jaw, the other tangled at his neck.

"You're sweet."

"I am no such thing," denies Lerant. And bravely, he follows this with, "Give him a chance, Kel, he's one of the good ones."

"Since when are you best friends with His Highness?"

Lerant's mouth finds its way to Kel's neck and her breath catches in spite of herself, when his teeth scrape her skin.

"I'm not - but you know I can't resist arguing for anything you're against."

This elicits a laugh from Kel.

"Guess what we found tonight on the canal site," continues Lerant.

"What?"

"I told you to guess."

Kel twists awkwardly in the scratchy woolen sheets that are common to the Northern barracks, propping herself up on one arm.

"Ah - a sense of humour?"

"Human bones," replies Lerant, unable to wait out the game he started.

"That's not funny," says Kel. "Obviously I was wrong."

"No, really," says Lerant, and Kel feels sick to her stomach.

"What, and no one thought to tell me about it? I'm just the commander of New Hope."

Lerant shifts too, guiltily, and and it annoys Kel immensely.

"Jasson's men are dealing with it," admits Lerant reluctantly, bracing against the angry silence that follows.

"I have to go sort this out," says Kel, climbing out of bed, untangling her limbs from his.

"No," says Lerant. "The beauty of delegating is having more time for sleep. And other things that stop you from going crazy. Like me."

"Lerant-" protests Kel.

"Kel," says Lerant, not giving an inch. "They'll tell you everything they know in the morning."

He, too, climbs out of the cot, long fingers closing around Kel's wrist.

"Fine," says Kel after a moment, because Lerant is too stubborn, and morning is barely a few hours away. "So, this thing you call sleep."

Lerant places a chaste kiss on Kel's forehead.

"If you're not sold on sleep, I have some other ideas..."

There's a sudden assault of objects being thrown at the cloth walls of Lerant's small space, interspersed with groans. "Get a room," hollers one sleepy voice.

"They're just jealous," says Lerant, when he and Kel are done exchanging amused grins. "That the most beautiful woman in the world chose me."

Kel snorts. "I've been called a lot of things before..."

"Like terrifyingly efficient?" Asks Lerant, smiling.

"Mm," says Kel, "I really like that one."

ttt

Duke Nealan is hunched over his desk, reading a thick text that looks to be a few hundred years old, and devouring a dessert pastry that flakes carelessly across the book. When the aged healer looks up to see Hope and Strahan peering at him through the half-open door, he briskly drops his reading glasses on the text and stretches, extending his linked hands forwards, palms outwards. Strahan flinches, visibly, at the sound of the Duke's cracking bones.

"Hello, your Grace," says Hope, interrupting the awkward silence that follows.

"Ah, yes, young Hope," says the Duke musingly. "I was wondering when I would see you again."

Strahan elbows Hope imperceptibly; she chooses to be a bigger person and steps into the small office, smoothing her skirts.

"I was hoping - if you have some time, that is - to talk with you about my mother."

Duke Nealan smiles thinly, "Keladry."

"Yes."

"And Vann's Son, what part do you play here?" The duke raises an eyebrow at Strahan, who is fidgeting in the doorway, having chosen not to enter the room.

Strahan's mouth quirks before he responds. "Research, Sir."

"Oh, how so?"

"I am to play a healer in a new work commissioned for Festival," answers Strachan. "You might know the playwright."

Duke Nealan cackles. "I just might. Are the scenes filled with dry wit and lofty idealism?"

"Why, your Grace, it's as if you read my mind."

Hope watches the exchange with detached amusement, trying not to care that she feels left out.

"My son," explains Nealan despairingly. "Is a playwright."

"A talented one, at that," protests Strahan.

The Duke coughs behind one hand, and Hope can see the edges of a smile.

"Of course he's talented, he's a Queenscove."

Hope laughs, taken with the healer in spite of herself, and he looks at her, apparently startled by her presence.

"Young Hope, why don't you have a seat." He gestures towards a dusty chair. "Does your Goon intend to stay?"

Hope turns to see Strahan, who is looking decidedly non-committal.

"I can stay," he offers quietly. "If you want me to."

Hope answers with a shake of her head.

Strahan looks unsure, tilting his head slightly to the side, as if weighing the situation. "Should anyone require my presence," he says finally, bowing with a flourish, "I will be downstairs. Doing research."

There's a pause that follows Strahan's abrupt exit, and clings to his footsteps, echoing down the stairwell.

"I have heard much about you," says Duke Nealan, Chief Healer of the Realm.

"And I of you," responds Hope evenly. "It's a great honour to meet the man was - and is - held is such high esteem by my Mother and foster parents."

"I can only imagine," says the Duke at length, his tone reading as a warning. "What you must be feeling, or think you want to know. I loved your mother as I did my own sisters, and there are confidences that I will not betray. The past is not a place for the young to dwell."

Hope stares incredulously, before casting her eyes downwards and grasping about for inspiration. In the end, she calmly unfolds a handkerchief from her cloak, and bites her lower lip; the distaste on her features coming from the taste of thick red lip colouring.

"I only wanted to know what she was like," says Hope. "You know better than anyone."

The Duke taps his fingers on his desk, and eyes the child of his dead best friend, considering her warily. _Oh come on_, thinks Hope to herself, while composing her face. It's only half an act, after all.

It takes a moment of tense stalemate, but Nealan's face does eventually split into a twisted smirk.

And then he says, to her surprise, "You would have been good for one another."

Hope looks at the Duke, and for the first time they are able to meet halfway. "We were."

* * *

_Happy Mother's Day!_

_xoxo Fenella  
_


	6. Part VI

Hello, dearest of dear readers, Fenella here! Two things.  
One: Thank you all for your kind words and reviews, I love getting each and every one. Y'all are awesome and encouraging!  
Two: The rest of this story should *crosses fingers for luck* be a lot quicker from here on out :) I will finish this one! I'm rather attached to it.

xoxoxo Fen

* * *

**Postcards From New Hope**  
(Or _How to Grow a Woman from the Ground_)

Part VI

It's early morning yet in Mindelan's Bound, sunlight filtering through heavy wooden slats in Hope's street-side window. Distant shouts, indicative of the weekend market, are still few and cheerful.

Hope stands in front of an oval mirror, pinning her straight hair into twists and curls. The room, behind her in the mirror, is large and mostly empty, bedclothes in disarray, visible over one pale shoulder. Hope twists a lock of soft, brown hair in her fingers and it reveals a hidden orange, not unlike the streaks of sun that crawl across the hardwood floor.

She grimaces, her reflection making a small face in return, and tugs down the locket that hangs over her mirror. It opens easily in her hands, the gold smooth and worn by her practiced hands, and displays two portraits. The first is herself as a small child, face round with youth and achingly care-free, settled on Grandma Ilane's lap by strong but aged hands. Grandma has broad shoulders and a calm, stately look that Hope admires.

The other miniature is Mother, of course, looking exactly as Hope has heard described one thousand times over. They look alike, as mothers and daughter do, though the differences that lie between Ilane and Keladry carry the same weight between Keladry and Hope.

Hope has finer features than her mother, high cheekbones giving added angles to her face. And where Hope's face is framed by the stylish, sweeping hair of a young noblewoman, Keladry's locks are cropped short for combat. The small, soft mouth is the same - shared with every Mindelan cousin, aunt and uncle whom Hope has ever met - and so is the set of its determination.

But the most pronounced difference is that where the Lady Knight's expression - that look of being caught in a far off dream - is inviting, Hope's own gaze is sharp and unfamiliar.

_Thanks for that, Mother_, thinks Hope as she shuts the necklace with a snap. _You couldn't have left me a locket with the portrait of a mysterious young man - one with oddly familiar features? Or an necklace with initials engraved into the back? No, fine..._

Hope is half-tempted to take a closer look when the locket drops ruby side down on the dresser, chain caught in her closed fist, but she knows that it's only foolishness. The locket was a present to Grandma from Mother, returned to Hope when Ilane was taken by the hand of the Dark God, a long ten years past. In those miserable, tear-stained days, Hope had scoured the jewelry over and over. And again in more recent years, feeling quite shrewd, she'd looked for any number of hidden meanings.

Was her father's name written in The Book of Gold? Not likely. And the ruby, the sun's stone, was her father a priest of Mithros? Foolishness. There had been no clue then, and there wouldn't be one now.

There must have been a reason that Mother didn't want her to know the identity of her father, certainly, but Hope has long since decided that no possible outcome could be worse than not knowing; she can deal with the truth, whatever it might be, Hope trusts herself that much, even if Keladry didn't.

Consciously leaving the locket behind (her foremothers, a forward-think diplomat and the legendary Lady Knight have proved to be of no help) Hope straightens the collar of her blouse and gives her reflection a wink.

"It's just you and me today," she tells her reflection, before rolling her eyes and smiling.

It gives her courage, knowing that she's possibly every bit as crazy as her Mother.

ttt

The heat is bearable on days such as this, interrupted by an occasional breeze and the promise of cooler autumn days. Wind rolls off city roofs and gathers an army of dust in alleys and nooks, where slabs of stone and clay lie in wait for construction.

The wind tugs at Kel's loose-fitting shirt and breeches, tracing the skin that is still warm from Lerant's touch, making her shiver. She's tired, and crawls inside her exhaustion; letting it cling like a protective armour. Down, down the winding hill, towards the knot of young men gathered at the canal site.

Oblivious to rolling walls of dust, one of the mages is talking - animatedly from the looks of his wild gestures - and interrupted frequently by his companions loud bursts of laughter.

The Prince is easy to spot, though his back is turned. His stance is a too-casual reflection of his companions posture, and the other mages tilt their heads to him in an unconscious deference.

Kel hesitates approaching the group, suddenly feeling awkward with the situation. She's the Commander of New Hope, and she wouldn't flinch to bark orders at any other man in the village, let alone one almost ten years her junior. But somehow the Contés demand respect.

Resisting the temptation to grimace, Kel placates herself by making a clue for one of Neal's word games. Seven letter synonym for aggravating, especially before breakfast? Royalty.

Kel's presence attracts the notice of a blonde-haired mage and the Prince turns, alert, and negating Kel's moment of indecision.

"Sir," says Jasson. "Do you have a minute? We've found something - ah - interesting."

ttt

The stairs creaks, and Hope imagines the townhouse twisting to bear her shifting weight as she stalks across the foyer towards the front door. Half-way through the entrance hall, Will calls to her from the parlour.

"I'm headed to the market," answers Hope.

There's a silence before Lady Jocelyn responds. "Come talk with us, dear."

Hope hesitates, but only for a second, before she sighs and gathers her skirts in one hand, increasing her agility. Soon Jorge will be waiting at the edge of the market, where the wooden boardwalk turns into cobbled stone. Hope can picture him standing just under the market gate, looking tousled from a morning of work on the water, and with a vague smile of greeting on his weather-beaten face.

"Hope?" Calls Jocelyn again.

Yes, best keep this brief. "Yes, coming," answers Hope.

Jocelyn is seated, looking quite glamourous for a quiet day at home. Will is standing - lounging really, against the mantel - looking scholarly in his reading lenses, and tracking two year old Lysander's playful movements with a serious expression.

They really are the picture of domestic bliss, Hope can't help but think. There's fondness there, she acknowledges, with just a touch of irritation.

"Ope-ope!" grins Andie, attacking her with his toy sailboat.

Hope makes a half-hearted face at her nephew before turning to his father.

"I've been meaning to ask you something, Will," says Hope, gratefully accepting a cup of tea from Jocelyn. The older woman, looking tolerantly amused pulls her son back by his trousers and settles him, squirming, onto her lap.

"Sure," says Will, and gives her the big brother smile of bountiful knowledge.

Hope takes a sip from her cup. "I want to know why are people so, well, _strange_ about Giftedness in the Bounds."

Will raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean by that?"

"Surely you've noticed!"

Hope thinks carefully before continuing. "Strahan's complexion, when I used my Gift, rivaled that of dead Aunt Myrna's ghost-"

Here she pauses, watching expectantly and half-bemused as Jocelyn kisses the beads hanging around her neck.

"-And I've noticed things since then; people from Lower Town change the subject, and you never use your gift in front of company."

Will exchanges a glance with his wife. "Things are different here, Hope."

"That's just what he said," Hope retorts in exasperation.

"The Gift has its uses," says Lady Jocelyn gently, wrapping her arms tighter around her son before continuing. "In the lower city, where I grew up, people are distrustful of those individuals who wield both magic and authority."

"There are stories," Will begins thoughtfully, pausing to remove his spectacles. Hope thinks, with a sudden jolt to her stomach, that he looks quite grown-up and world-weary. When did that happen? "Stories of imprisonment and torture at the hand of the Gifted. The Scanran War wasn't in your lifetime or mine, but some remember very clearly the atrocities of corrupted Gifts."

"There are very few people still alive that lived through that time," admits Will. "Your friend Strahan's mother, Irnai, was just a young girl then."

Hope takes a moment to digest this piece of information, while Will and Jocelyn share another indecipherable glance.

"Distrust is bred in the bone, and taught in the cradle." Hope's foster brother looks distinctly unhappy.

Jocelyn smiles, her red mouth sad and sweet. "Oh come now my love," she says broadly, with a wink to Hope. "We don't ask for our gifts, and I have made good from mine."

This makes Hopes choke on a sip of tea.

"I didn't know that you have The Gift," protests Hope when she is done coughing, and Will has stopped laughing, behaving more like the pig-sucking big brother that Hope knows. "Master Sylvan comes to teach me _every day_ during the week, and you've never said anything!"

Jocelyn laughs warmly, and Lysander copycats, gurgling happily. "I save my gifts for the theatre, my own sweet revenge."

"I don't understand - "

"Small things mostly," says Jocelyn airily. "To make my voice carry, or for the audience to feel heightened emotions. Just don't tell your friend Strahan; there are those who would think it a player's betrayal."

Hope nods conspiratorially. "Don't worry about me, my lips are sealed."

"Speaking of Strahan," says Will, tilting his head, and giving her the look; an expression she'd seen countless times on Pa's face back at Jesslaw, when he was tip-toeing guiltily around the house, avoiding Ma at all costs.

Hope's pulse quickens. "Let's have it out, Jesslaw. You are my brother and the sun will still rise in the morning - unless you've tracked mud across the foyer _again_."

At the deliberate misquote of Ma's familiar words, Will's mouth twists somewhere between a smirk and unhappiness, and settles on a hard line of determination.

"I know you like to be independent Hope, but you're our ward and a young noblewoman."

Hope's heart sinks.

"We can't - I can't - let you wander the city at all hours," continues Will. "Not alone, and especially not with young men. It's not responsible. And it's not safe."

Hope can feel herself staring. She's not sure where this is going, but the sudden wave of dread is overwhelming.

"So," concludes Will with great finality, and some apprehension, "we've hired a maidservant who is to be your chaperone. Jocelyn and I hope you'll become great friends."

And almost pleadingly, "She's a lovely girl, Hope."

ttt

There's a mound of loamy silt at the excavation site, a stack of neatly categorized human bones - skulls smiling guilelessly in a row - and one of Jasson's mages down on hands and knees in the dirt.

"Kel," she says, offering a hand which the mage takes after wiping his own on a pair of muddy breeches.

"Tresler," replies the man, bobbing his head in acknowledgment.

"I hear that you're a biologist."

"Yes, Lady."

"What do you make of these bones? Can you tell who they were?"

"Well," begins Tresler, as if he were a professor addressing a particularly interesting question from a pupil, "they were all men, that much I have been able to determine from the evident sexual dimorphism in the skeletons. And at a rough guess they're roughly thirty years deceased. Of course without proper equipment and formal laboratory facilities, it's impossible to determine exactly what the cause of death may have been... sickness, a raiding party perhaps."

"Not old age?"

"I'm afraid not, the bones belong to men ranging from youth to old age. It becomes increasingly difficult to pin down their exact ages as they pass through youth, tooth and bone development becoming less indicative. But from what I can tell, the majority appear to have been in their prime."

The whole thing makes Kel's skin crawl. She turns to Jasson, who has been standing to the side, a look of casual interest on his face.

"This doesn't bother you?" asks Kel, eyeing him irritably.

"Should it?" returns Jasson, curiousity flitting over his features.

Kel gives him a look of incredulousness, before fixing her stare on a distant mountain peak. "Is there word that anyone lived around here at that time?"

"It seems doubtful," says Tresler cheerfully.

"But we can write to Corus and have the records checked," adds Jasson.

There's a pause in which the wind gathers strength, separating Mage, Prince and Lady Knight into their own silent thoughts.

After a moment's consideration Tresler sighs aloud, hands on hips. "Hmmm. Curious."

It sets Kel's teeth on edge, the way that he carries on, as if it's no more than a puzzle to be solved. It's rare that she takes such an instant disliking to another individual. Some of the mages seem quite approachable, and yet she can't find blame for the way in which New Hope's villagers avoid the magic-users. Between the thirteen men, their camp practically crackles with The Gift. As for Tresler, Kel can't decide if Jasson genuinely likes the man, or has simply had more chance to practice patience with him.

"What's curious?" prompts Jasson, perfect teeth flashing in an indulgent grin.

"Well, the skeletons, they number twelve."

Kel glances side-long at the Prince. "Is that significant?"

"It could be," says Tresler with great anticipation.

Jasson just shrugs. "We'll have to ask Tomas."

It's like pulling teeth from a gelding, thinks Kel. Only a good deal less enjoyable.

She smiles pleasantly. "And who is Tomas?"

Jasson eyes Kel warily. "He's the mathematician."

ttt

Strahan kisses his mother on the cheek and drops an apron into her cart with an exaggerated sigh of relief. He turns to Hope and bows, making a great show of bringing her hand to his lips. "My Lady."

Hope smiles back, before playfully wrinkling her nose. "You smell like fish."

"So does Jorge," points out Strahan. "And you spent the day wandering the market with him."

"Jorge smells like the river, and hard work," argues Hope, eliciting an appreciative laugh from the man in question. "You smell like fish."

Strahan rolls his eyes, and changes the subject. "Who's your friend?"

The pink-faced girl who has been standing awkwardly a few feet away, tries valiantly to look as though she is not the topic of conversation.

"She's not my friend," insists Hope, glaring at the girl.

"Huh." Strahan raises an eyebrow and moves directly in front of the stranger, waiting until she reluctantly looks at him.

"Hello, I'm Strahan," he says, extending his hand good-naturedly.

"Orwyn," answers the girl with an uncomfortable glance at Hope before shaking his hand.

Strahan looks back at Hope, who is determinedly avoiding eye-contact, and grimaces apologetically at Orwyn.

"Why is it that Orwyn here is following the two of you around, and what have you done to make her so miserable?" asks Strahan at length.

"_Her_ miserable!" exclaims Hope.

Jorge gives Strahan a look that says he's not involving himself in this argument for brotherly love, or money. "I'll walk you three as far as the theatre," he says leadingly.

"Oh no," returns Strahan with a look that screams for help. "You can't leave us and wander off to the river tonight - there's something we need your help with, right Hope?"

Hope gaze reluctantly flickers over Strahan, Jorge, Irnai's busy figure in the background, and finally settles on Orwyn.

"I'm not so sure it's a good idea now. Considering..."

Strahan shifts irritably. "Well make up your mind. Some of us have things to do that don't revolve around you, you know."

Both Jorge and Orwyn hastily look away, wincing.

"You're right," agrees Hope violently. "I don't know why I even asked for your help. Consider yourself off the hook. You're absolutely free to do whatever it is you do when you're not trailing after me."

"Good," Strahan's words are all venom and no remorse; they're drawing attention now, Irnai watching in dismay. "I only agreed because of who your mother is anyways. It was curiousity plain and simple. And Carlan's crowd is right, you really are no more than a-"

"Enough," says Jorge. It's quiet, but firm enough that it stops Strahan mid-sentence.

"I deeply regret my brother's foolish words, Lady, and am sure that you will find in your heart to forgive him. I assure you that Strahan didn't mean any offense."

Strahan protests angrily, "I did, too!"

"Also," continues Jorge smoothly. "I thank you for your company today, I couldn't possibly think of a better way to enjoy the market."

These last remarks bring a pink tinge to the cheeks of Hope's otherwise colourless, and drawn features. But her tone is still white-hot with rage as she turns and snaps at Orwyn.

"Let's go. We're done here."

ttt

The canal is dark, and seemingly bottomless in the night-time shadows. The only movement on the still, slow water is a small wooden craft, a cross between a raft and a primitive boat. Two figures lie backs against unsanded wood, tucked under a thick woolen blanket, and drifting away from they city. The smell of mouth-watering outdoor roasts, and drunken shouts of festival cheer fall just short of their careful isolation.

"I can't believe you built this," says Kel, turning her head so that her nose is less than an inch from Lerant's. His hair, uncut and curling at the tips, brushes her forehead.

Lerant's mouth twists into a smile, she can hear it in his voice. "You're a hard woman to get alone for any amount of time. The logical course of action was to strand us at sea."

Kel leans forward and kisses Lerant; soft, lingering, and without reservation.

He twists to deepen the kiss and the raft flails accordingly, making Kel laugh, and Lerant moves away in indignation before joining, sheepishly, in the laughter. Kel pulls Lerant forward for another kiss, and with his mouth on hers, her last coherent thought is that she needs to tell him.

"I love you."

Lerant smiles into her cheek. "I know you do."

"Hey," teases Kel, since it's her turn to be indignant. "There's barely over a foot of water in here. I could literally get up and walk away."

"Your socks would get wet," warns Lerant with a sniff. And then in a much warmer tone adds, "Please don't."

Kel closes her eyes and smiles happily into the dark, placing one last careful kiss on the side of Lerant's bearded jaw. "I won't."

"Ever?"

Kel's chest tightens, her heart beating loudly. "Never."


	7. Part VII

It's been ages - it seems I am horrible at making promises, I will stick to writing stories in the future. I hope that those of you still around to read will enjoy! It is on my 23 years of age bucket list to finish this story, and I plan to see it through. Love, Fenella.

* * *

**Postcards from New Hope**  
_(or How to Grow a Woman from the Ground)_

Part VII

Strahan, sitting shadowed on the edge of the stage, wolf-whistles as Hope steps through the house doors to the theatre. She makes a pretty picture, he thinks, sleek, cream coloured skirts against the dark red carpet. In truth, he's relieved to see her; their street fight felt all too real, staged as it was.

"I don't give you enough credit," calls Hope by way of greeting. "You're a good player after all."

Strahan smiles to himself, and drops from the stage, landing with a thud that resonates in the empty space.

"I take it that everyone thinks you're furious?"

"Will won't dare come near me for days," Hope smirks. "It turns out I have a certain flair for the dramatic too."

"That's my girl," says Strahan, giving her a playful shove. "And Orwyn?"

"Poor girl," shrugs Hope, smoothing her skirts and giving her companion a stern look.

Strahan surveys Hope carefully. "I think you're missing something."

Hope looks up from straightening her dark brown cloak, and Strahan is startled by the fleeting moment of vulnerability, caught in her widened eyes; insecurity is not something that he sees this new, almost grown-up Hope wear frequently, or easily.

"What's that?" she asks, prompting.

"Oh," says Strahan, raking fingers through his hair, before reaching for an inside pocket of his jacket. "I brought you this."

Hope smiles in spite of herself. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know," admits Strahan. "But I am accompanying you to the first of the Summer Hollyrose Follies, even if it's all business and no play."

She reaches out to take the yellow rose, but Strahan bats her hands away. Ignoring Hope's pursed mouth, he tucks the flower's stem into the hair pinned above her right ear, stopping to admire his handiwork.

"Yellow flowers are my favourite," says Hope, tugging her cloak tight.

Strahan nods, he's seen her hover over the sunflowers and daffodils at the market. And then he watches as Hope's face darkens, and a frown stretches across her lips.

"They're happy," she says, one eyebrow raised in contempt.

"Come on," says Strahan, tucking his fingers around her own. "Let's go."

ttt

Orwyn stands on the banks of the Vassa River, yelling Jorge's name. His boat is not far out and there is no wind to carry her voice back to shore. Frustrated that she's even here, but determined not to lose her new, well-paying work over the silly dramatics of a stuck-up girl with a half-nothing claim to two fiefs, Orwyn manages to not stamp her foot like a child.

"Jorge," she hollers one last time, and rolls her eyes in disgust.

"Holiest brethren of my Great Mother," spits Orwyn, all traces of timidity gone in her apparent solitude. "I swear to you that if this man ignoring me purposefully, I will end him with a fishing hook, and gut him like the fine-looking trout he pretends to be."

While casting about for inspiration, or a suitable fishing hook, Orwyn's gaze falls on a small launch tugging at the post to which it's tied. Gleeful at the stroke of luck, Orwyn climbs into the wooden boat and grabs a paddle before setting to work on the thick, scratchy rope that's knotted to the dock.

As she pushes away from solid land, and cuts her paddle into the water, Orwyn feels some small satisfaction.

ttt

Sir Merric of Hollyrose is a surprise.

He's fair to the commoners but doesn't love them. Sometimes it seems like it hurts his teeth to be so scrupulously patient and fair-minded, but he lets them say their piece, and after a shake of his head will do right by the law.

Sometimes the refugees and ex-convicts hold their breathe as Lady Keladry rides into the distance, until she's less than a dot on the horizon, and wait for Sir Merric to turn ugly. He never does.

But it's still a shock when news comes from the south; he's been disinherited for marrying a common-born girl. All attention turns to Alison, sweet daughter of New Hope's favourite baker, with dark brown hair and a kind laugh that brings a red to Sir Merric's cheeks that is matched only by his flaming red locks.

Alison and Sir Merric, it turns out, have been married in a quiet ceremony with her parents and brothers attending in the smallest, oldest New Hope chapel. It's met with an urgent disapproval from his own family before the northern rumour mill even begins to spin, but the groom stands firm, and loses his claim to be a Lord in one of the realm's favoured fiefs.

New Hope exists in the thickness of isolation, just out of sync with the rest of the country, which helps to lessen the sadness in Merric's gaze. He stands resolutely at his young wife's side, his tension easing with a soft brush of fingers and a subtle smile from one to the other.

Merric is no longer a commanding knight, titles stripped and thrown to the ground in a challenge of family propriety and duty. He reflects on Lady Alanna's fortunes and the disappointment he has brought to his beloved parents, and mopes around Alison's parents' bakery, making misshaped loaves and deflated muffins.

Alison, feeling wretched, elicits a small laugh from her husband by covering his face with a dusting of flower from the dough on her hands, and kissing the tip of his nose. But it's not until she returns home late from errands one night, bringing baked good to the mages, that she places a large text with Law scrawled across the binding in gold on the table in their small river-side home. The next night, when she returns home with the bread, Merric is studying the text by candle, a true smile across his face.

Merric earns his degree slowly, by correspondence in the unreliable mail through the mountain pass, but not until four years have passed; two since Alison has died in childbirth, carrying their unborn son into the arms of the Black God herself.

The villagers of New Hope turned Mindelan's Bound have a hard time pin-pointing the exact moment when Merric went mad, but they agree he was probably on his way before ever being appointed Governor to city in the North.

ttt

"That's a horrible story," says Hope.

Strahan takes this as a compliment to his storytelling skills. "In the end," he says, "Sir Merric -"

"I thought you said he lost his title," protests Hope, interrupting.

"He did," he says, giving her a look. "New Hope gave it back to him, informally so to speak. You see, in the end, Sir Merric was almost as loved as your Mother by the people of the Bounds."

"And this festival?"

Strahan grins. "Seven days of masked festival, where high and lower towns come together in drink and debauchery. It's his poetic legacy. "

He sees Hope's resolve falter as she knots the back of her mask; black stitched with gold, feathers rising from the crown.

"Don't worry," adds Strahan. "Nobles hardly ever take part until the third and fourth Hollyroses - tonight marks the night that Sir Merric hanged himself in his office - it would be uncivilized to mark the falling of their own."

Hope's lip curls in distaste. "A horrible story," she repeats.

ttt

On a good day, Kel is torn as to whether Irnai and Tobe's discovery of sexuality and each other is cute or horrifying. Today is a day where she's caked in mud, has exhaustion from the sun, Lerant has some sort of stomach parasite where he's vomiting everywhere, and she's on her way to visit the Prince and his mages.

"I'm not jealous!" protests Tobe.

Kel can practically feel the look that Irnai gives her friend, though the two are trailing behind by a few steps, and resolutely climbs the winding path while gritting her teeth.

"I'd have seen it by now, if we were meant to be together Tobe."

"I don't believe that," howls Tobe. "Maybe you just have a ... block."

"A block?"

"You know, when it comes to seeing the future about yourself."

There's a pensive silence.

"No," says Irnai with heavy sincerity. "I don't think that's it."

"Why then?" Asks Tobe. "Is it because of that thing Jodi told Cairn? Because it was a filthy lie!"

Kel turns and growls in irritation. "Tobe, that's it. You're going home."

Tobe stops short and yelps, showing the indignity of the situation. "Me?"

"Yes, you." Kel fixes him with a stern glare. "And you'd better have your sums done by the time I return home - don't think I haven't noticed that you've been forgoing them."

Tobe pauses to return the stare for half a second, before turning tail and heading down the hill, kicking at the dirt along the way.

"Sorry," says Irnai in the awkward silence that follows as they watch Tobe's retreating back.

Kel shrugs and continues to climb the hill, unable to summon energy or helpful advice for a teenaged girl with the gift of sight. She does wonder for the rest of the hike, what the future holds for her students and the remaining youth of New Hope, and how much of those paths Irnai has already seen.

ttt

The gardens of Governor Merric's estate are opened to the public twice a year - once for the seven days of Hollyroses in the summer, and again for the Governor's Ball at Midwinter. The rest of the year, the large free-standing manor on the edge of Mindelan's Bound is a dark, gloomy archive and clerical office for the city's junior officers.

At the west end of the Manor's stone-walled property stands a grounds keeper's shack, bent with expanded wood and winter years, and an unremarkable door leading down and into the Founders' Crypt.

Strahan and Hope slowly work their way through the crowded garden, alive with the richness of coloured fabrics, shouts of laughter, and the winding smell of Southern Ale. They're stopped just short of the grounds keeper's shack by a laughing woman in a canary mask, her fingers encircling Hope's wrist.

"You should come with me," says the mystery woman, her voice low and seductive, with the lingering traces of an accent. "I will take care of you."

Hope blinks in surprise, before smiling at the masked woman. "I'm a little busy."

Strahan feels the woman's gaze land on him for the first time, and shifts nervously as she stares piercingly, looking him over from toe to the tips of his green mask. Evidently unhappy with what she sees, her gaze snaps back to Hope.

"Come back later," says the woman, with a slow smirk, before disappearing into the crowd. "Come alone, and I will sing you a song."

Hope stares after their mysterious encounter, perplexed, and cheeks flushed.

"Well that was weird."

"Yes," says Strahan twisting the ruby ring on his smallest finger, "It was."

Hope laughs, shoving Strahan playfully. "No need to sound as if your dog just died."

But Strahan, apparently, is unable to look Hope in the eye. His gaze has settled on her unusually bare neck. "Hope," says Strahan slowly. "You're not wearing your locket."

Hope's hands move self-consciously to the base of her throat. "So?"

"Oh," says Strahan, after a beat. "No reason. It would have matched your blouse is all."

"Sure," says Hope, eyeing her friend, and is about to press the point when a very drunk young man stumbles into her. He's wearing vines, and not much else, and has a masked woman by the wrist. The man gives Hope a wink before turning and nodding at Strahan, who is quietly laughing, and continuing on, away from the gardens.

"... he looks familiar," remarks Hope, trying not to oggle the man's well defined torso.

"Kibby Stryker, in the flesh," says Strahan and with good humour.

Strahan turns abruptly and leads the way into the shadows, pausing only briefly before opening the door to the shed. Hope lingers a moment before following, mind flitting over recent - and strange - events.

ttt

Tomas is a pleasant surprise, thinks Kel, thoughtful and polite. At a rough estimate, he's in his early twenties - though his rough beard and his quiet confidence give him the illusion of added years. Kel and Irnai find him in the Mages' camp, gutting fish not far from a blazing fire, and laughing easily with another mage.

"You've heard about the human bones, no doubt," says Kel, after Tomas has confirmed his identity.

"Indeed," says Tomas, exchanging glances with his companion. "I have."

"Is the fact that they number twelve of any significance?" asks Kel, right to the point.

"Twelve is a number of great power," says Tomas with great solemnity. "There are twelve stars which guide the heavens, and thus divide our calendar year. There are twelve Gods in the shared house of Mithros and the Great Mother. Of course, if to speculate without knowing the cause of these humans' deaths is great foolishness."

Here Tomas shrugs, "It could be purely coincidence that their remains number twelve."

"And do you believe that, that it is merely a coincidence?" asks Kel, noticing with a start that the Mages from around camp - the Prince included - had all gathered around, eyes flickering between Tomas and herself. "That these men died a natural death?"

The mathematician pauses, licking his lips before speaking. "No."

Kel's heart skips a beat. She knows that she can guard against the natural, and physical threats. And Kel has proven herself before against magical evils, but it will never fall within a realm which she can call comfortable.

Tomas continues, eyes locked over Kel's shoulder, on Prince Jasson. "But twelve is also incomplete. It defines, but does not encompass the whole."

Before Kel can ask for the man to elaborate, she feels the ghost of a touch at her elbow and turns to face Jasson, finds his gaze half an inch above her own.

"It is not merely a coincidence," says the Prince, his voice quiet and a definite spark in his eyes, "That my men number thirteen."

ttt

The passage is narrow, packed dirt and slabs of stone lending no warmth as Strahan and Hope descend one after the other. The only light comes from the small box-lanterns that they carry, and neither person speaks. The deep silence swallows up any sounds and idle chatter, when Strahan had still the courage to try, has been too small and terrifying.

ttt

As Orwyn approaches the boat that she had thought belonged to Jorge, she feels a sudden an profound unease. He - she sees now that it is Jorge, no small comfort - is oblivious to her approach, entranced by his companion.

Jorge's companion is a woman. To describe her is a struggle, even in Orwyn's own head. The woman is, well, not quite there. Her figure is present, in the mist, and her voice is singing, sweet and low. But when Orwyn looks directly where the woman should be, there is only a thick sense of grief.

Looking studiously at the moonlit water, Orwyn observes Jorge's boat from the periphery of her vision. The woman is seemingly smiling, and Jorge leans into her embrace. She strokes his cheek tenderly and Orwyn hears Jorge speak, quiet and lovingly.

Orwyn pulls her cloak tighter and shouts, "Jorge!" one last time. Her voice shames her by coming out thin and frightened.

The man in the other boat looks up, startled, and Orwyn is quite sure that the other woman is gone. Jorge is furious, and Orwyn realizes what a frightening thing it is, to have this vague man's attention focused sharply on her.

She should not have come, he says. And what is she doing, anyways?

Orwyn squares her chin. "It's Strahan and Hope," she says. "I think they're doing something stupid." She considers what she's just seen. "And maybe very dangerous."

ttt

When Kel returns to the Mages' campfire, accompanied by the Petr the engineer, she sees Irnai leaning in towards Tomas and grinning slyly.

"I am very flexible," Irnai is saying. "Would you like me to dance for you? I've been learning one that has some especially difficult counts, and I know how interested you are in numbers."

"Err," says Tomas, flushing crimson.

"Irnai!" barks Kel, and Irnai looks up, guiltily frozen, before flouncing over to flank Kel.

Kel looks around at the assembled men. "I know that this has not been an easy or most most welcome transition for your men, but I thank you for sharing your wisdom and," she adds pointedly for Tomas, "Your attentiveness to the people of New Hope."

Several of the men cough, and another few laugh tiredly as Kel and and Irnai begin their descent, leaving the camp with a carpet of green, and into the city where their boots are covered in dust and mud.

"You," Kel says to Irnai, to emphasize the point, "Are a shameless flirt."

Irnai answers with a silence in which all the unseen and seen future stretches pointedly.

Kel rubs at her forehead tiredly and thanks the Great Mother that she is not, actually, the mother of this (or any) teenage girl.

ttt

"You didn't have to come," says Jorge pointedly as he and Orwyn climb deeper below the city.

"Oh didn't I just," says Orwyn. "I don't know exactly what you're involved in, but it doesn't scream trustworthy."

Jorge gives Orwyn a sharp look and she shrinks, having his full attention for the second time in the space of an hour.

"You don't know what you're talking about," says Jorge flatly.

"You're right," agrees Orwyn angrily. "If you'll remember, that's the whole point of this argument."

"What - that you stick your nose where it doesn't belong?"

Orwyn resists the urge to shake Jorge. "I am sorely tempted to walk away, and leave you to deal with this mess. She's more trouble than this is worth. And you! You and your brother are just as bad as a pair of Nobles. Worse, probably."

Jorge rolls his eyes. "I'm not stopping you from leaving."

"Oh that's just-"

Orwyn and Jorge round a final corner and their lamplight shows Hope and Strahan looking at them guiltily, hovering over a large coffin. They fall silent for a moment, before opening their mouths to ally in scolding their younger companies.

"Oh don't," says Hope tiredly.

"There's nothing here but Sir Merric's coffin," adds Strahan.

Orwyn and Jorge's eyebrows inch upwards, inquisitively.

"Who were you expecting?" asks Orwyn, not without biterness. "Sir Keladry?"

Hope breathes in sharply, and Strahan gives Orwyn a dark look, but Hope steadies her anger and replies, "This is the _Founder's Crypt_. There are plaques all over the city, dedicating clock towers and parks to the people who built this place. Not just my Mother."

She begins to recite determinedly, "Petr Ironsman, Engineer. Tresler Llewyn, Biologist. Chance Gilvery, Lawman."

"Impressive," says Jorge.

"I could go on," says Hope. "There are more."

Orwyn meets Hope's eyes for the first time since beginning service for the girl. "You're right," she says. "If they're not here-"

"Where are they?" finishes Strahan.

Hope stares around at her three companions; Jorge failing to feign disinterest, Orwyn somewhere between anger and pity, Strahan staring back determinedly.

"I'd like to know what happened to them." Hope shrugs, smiling wolfishly. "And if you're planning on stopping me, you'd best let me know now, so I can leave you down here in Sir Merric's coffin. It will save us all a great deal of heartache."


	8. Part VIII

Thanks all, for the comments. I know it's been AGES, but I really do treasure each one (unimaginable amounts!) and intend to finish (sooner than later!). This bit is a little, um, darker. I'm back in a writing place after a year of really not being in one. Let me know what you do or don't like about it... this story's been plotted out in my head for a few years now, so comments aren't too likely to change the "Who Done It" bits, but it will definitely help me get there. And probably with more style! Hope you enjoy. xoxo Fenella.

* * *

**Postcards From New Hope**  
(Or _How to Grow a Woman from the Ground_)

**Part VIII**

Orwyn accompanies Hope on the climb back to the Upper Bounds, to the Jesslaw's townhouse. Hope admits, if only inwardly, that the girl's company is a welcome distraction. The masked revelers, once a joyful curiousity, have taken a brash, almost sinister tone.

"I owe you an apology," says Orwyn. Her words come in a rush, causing Hope to turn and stare.

"Whatever for?"

"I misjudged you," confesses Orwyn.

"I should be the one apologizing. It wasn't fair to treat you as I did."

Orwyn shrugs. "Accepted. I understand that your behaviour wasn't aimed at me."

Hope grins wryly. "Yes, I would have been unforgivably horrible to any unfortunate soul that Will happened to hire. Not all of them would have the ability to win me over, mind you."

Orwyn smiles a little in return.

"Gods," says Hope after a short silence, and not without some unholy admiration. "I can't believe you followed us into the crypt."

The serving girl blushes, and smiles.

"This is good," says Hope, equal parts relief and song, uncommonly carefree. It's as if the night's events - festival and crypt - have lifted a weight from her shoulders. Hope has prepared for the tangible proof of her Mother's life and death, but the night has failed to deliver. "I could use a friend."

Hope finds that her fingers are tracing the outside petals of Strahan's rose, tucked in her hair. It's soft, almost velvet; a comfortable reminder of his quick smiles, and easier friendship. The gesture doesn't escape Orwyn's notice.

"I think he wants to be more than friends, that one."

Hope arches an eyebrow. "Strahan? He's like that with everyone. He's a player."

Orwyn makes a disbelieving noise. "He's sweet on you, Lady."

Hope laughs self-consciously. "Not likely."

Orwynn reaches up to touch the flower in Hope's hair. "Where did this come from, then? It really does spell an entire realm of indifference and loathing."

Hope's about to rebuff Orwyn's foolishness when the large wooden door of the Jesslaw's townhouse springs alive, opened from the inside. Will freezes, mid-step, on the front stoop; one foot swaying dangerously, mid-air, mouth agape. His eyes swing slowly between the two girls, Hope smiling sweetly, and Orwyn's hastily retreating hand.

"I thought," begins Will, choosing his words with delicate precision, and stops to clear his throat. "I'm glad to see that you're getting along."

Hope continues to smile and slings an arm around the other girl's shoulders, the way she's seen Strahan do, in a familiar gesture. "Orwyn is the loveliest," she says.

Will continues down the steps, fidgeting with his suit-coat as he goes. He brushes the bridge of Hope's nose with his index finger, like he would have when she was nine, and teases, "I'm so glad I have a son."

ttt

A silence stretches from the South, across days and weeks. The mystery of the bones from the canal site fades, and gives way to newer stresses and daily excitements. Jasson's mages prove to be a wealth of information and their presence begins to creep further into the city, met by a cautious acceptance.

The result is promising; structures are built upward, taller, and with more efficiency; the inhospitable soil slowly gives way to richer crops, and the canal is slowly filled with rocking boats, battling the winds and whitecapping waters. A festival celebrates the end of construction on the waterway, and the smell of fish begins to permeate land and air.

Kel works her way through the crowd of familiar faces, lit by lanterns and the last light of the day. There is evident pride, widespread, over New Hope's hard, steady, work paid in dividend. She stops to talk, share a joke or smile though she can feel the pull of Lerant's steady gaze.

Lerant is tucked to the side of the sloped market square, deep in conversation with the Prince. When Kel glances over, as she attempts to inch closer, Lerant's stare inevitably is there to meet her own, and his mouth curls into a smile.

"Hi," says Kel when she at last reaches Lerant and Jasson.

Lerant's grin stretches indefinitely.

Jasson looks between his companions, and decides his presence is unnecessary. Downing the last swallow of ale in his tankard, he clasps Kel on the shoulder.

"Nice work, Sir," he says, giving her his most charming Conté smile. "This is a thankless posting for you, the rest of us, and well beyond the sight of the realm. I want to assure that the Crown is both grateful and proud of your work."

Kel watches Jasson's retreating back disappear into the crowd.

"I want to strangle him," she says between gritted teeth, and turning back towards Lerant.

"Yes," says Lerant quietly, and he bends to kiss Kel on the mouth. "But not as much as you did a month ago."

"No," she admits, wrapping her arms around his neck, fingers tangling in the ends of his hair.

Kel is surprised when Lerant steps back from their kiss, takes her hands in his own. She raises her eyebrows expectantly, and waits for him to gather his words.

"I have a question for you," he says slowly, and Kel's heart skips a beat in response to his voice.

She licks her dry lips, Lerant's eyes following the movement. "What is it?" she asks.

"I was going to wait," Lerant breaks off. "I love you, Kel."

Kel smiles. That's not a question. "I love you too."

Lerant nods, eyes bright with excitement, apprehension, _something_.

"Will you marry me?"

It's Kel that steps back this time, her smile faltering. She wonders in the split second that follows, a moment she'll remember for the rest of her life, how those four words can leave her more beaten the the worst fall, strongest lance or most brutal sword; how the words of one man can carry so much expectation.

None of the agonizing conversation that ensues can compare to the look that settles on Lerant's face in that brief moment.

ttt

Will and Jocelyn surprise Hope by inviting her to accompany them to the fourth night of the Hollyroses. Jocelyn spends the day fussing over gowns for her ward, and takes the time to braid the ribbons into Hope's hair herself.

"I remember seeing your Mother once, when I was little," admits Jocelyn while her hands are busy, weaving ribbon and hair. "She brought her mount to be reshoed by my father."

Hope is surprised both by the softness of the moment, and that Jocelyn has never mentioned it before.

"She brought a basket of apples by way of thanks. In truth, we should have been thanking her - my father started losing business to the farrier cross-town when news spread that I was gifted. My parents adored her."

Hope turns to look Jocelyn square in the eyes. "Do you know who my father is?"

"Oh my love," sighs the older woman. With her usual flair for the dramatic removed, Jocelyn looks tired, though more beautiful for the lines around her eyes and mouth. "If I did, I'd tell you. Though I'm sometimes glad I don't."

Hope presses the point, "But you must have suspicions."

Jocelyn gently turns Hope's head to face forward, and ties the end of the length of ribbon, before starting on a new braid. "It's almost as if your mother went out of her way to start rumours, so no one could say for certain."

"There surely must of been one man she favoured over the others?"

"Yes," says Jocelyn. "She courted a man belonging to the King's Own for a considerable amount of time. But that was years before you were ever born. They were apparently quite besotted."

"Do you think she loved him?"

"I imagine she did."

"What about my father, do you think she loved him?"

"I don't know, Hope. Do you think she did?"

Hope shrugs, pulls at the gold and ruby locket around her neck. "Maybe. She loved me."

"Well obviously," teases Jocelyn, and envelopes Hope in a sisterly embrace. "Turn around so I can finish your hair, else Will may leave without us, and trade us for a new family altogether!"

"Yes Mam," retorts Hope.

ttt

Lerant will resign from the Own, he says. He wants to raise their children.

This is a problem, says Kel, because she doesn't have plans to be a mother.

Lerant tries to take it back; he loves her, things can stay the same.

Kel shakes her head. He will still want those things. Someday Lerant will meet a girl whom he will love, who will want those things too.

Lerant closes his eyes and wishes this nightmare gone.

They agree to stay together, a couple as they have been, until the Own leaves New Hope. It's inevitable, but each day stretches into a year, and each touch lasts longer than the one before. Even Neal learns to knock before barging into Kel's office in the guard house.

"I'll never love anyone like I love you," are the words that Lerant kisses into Kel's skin.

ttt

The fourth Hollyrose is much busier and more extravagant than the one that she and Strahan had illicitly attended only days before. Hope's own dress and gown are among the finest.

Will and Joclyn are swept up by the tide of dancers, moving in a current from one side of the yard to the other, beneath the strings of coloured lights. Orwyn and Hope are left by one of the bronze fountains, staring at each other from beneath their respective masks.

"What now?" asks Orwyn.

"I'm supposed to meet Strahan in the manor in a few minutes," admits Hope.

Hope can see Orwyn twitching with impatience. "Hope! Milady. I can't let you do that. Lord and Lady Jesslaw will be worried, not to mention furious if you disappear."

"Which is why we need to switch gowns and masks..."

Orwyn's eyebrows appear over the top of her mask. "That will not be happening."

Hope giggles, then laughs. "I'm only kidding. Calm down and enjoy the party."

It's two full hours later before Orwyn is relaxed enough to leave Hope's side, and dance with young man in a blue, striped tunic and a yellow mask. It's a decision that Orwyn regrets when she returns to find Hope tight-lipped and withdrawn.

"What's wrong?" asks Orwyn for the fourth time, and still she is met with no meaningful response.

Hope shakes her head. "I'll tell you when we get home."

But when Will and Jocelyn, tipsy with wine and merriment appear ready to leave in the early hours of the morning, they bid Orwyn to go home - for her to accompany them to their townhouse and return to Lower Town is pointless. Will offers to walk her home, even, but with an apologetic look to Hope, she declines.

ttt

When news from Corus arrives, finally, it's in the form of two people (plus accompanying squires and riding party) that Kel - under any other circumstances - would have been thrilled to see.

"Don't tell me," jokes Merric, starring between Prince Roald and Lady Alanna. "That you're the only two messengers who were available."

Neal coughs dryly, as the joke falls flat into a deep silence. "Well that must have been a fun trip."

Which is when Prince Jasson steps forward. "Brother, Aunt! Welcome."

Roald smiles at his youngest brother, while Alanna looks for Kel. "We should talk."

"Yes, of course. I apologize, if I'd known you were coming, we would have prepared an appropriate welcome."

Roald shakes his head, and asks if there is time to meet, immediately.

Despite Alanna's insistence that the personnel involved be on a need-to-know basis only, Kel's office is packed tightly with knights, mages and commanding officers of the King's Own.

Lady Alanna clears her throat. "The first piece of business is that the King's Own are being called away, effectively immediately to flooding farmlands in Corus' grain belt - the company can no longer be spared."

Kel avoids looking at Lerant, who is present at Roald and Alanna's request for the second item on the agenda, and instead looks at Dom. He looks apologetic, but his shoulders are squared with instinct, much like a dog would point at a duck flapping around a shallow pool of water, Kel can't help but think.

She nods, "Continue."

"This next bit is a little more, ah, complicated," beings Roald. "It's regarding the records you requested."

Alanna takes the pause in Roalds speech as an opportunity to stare down every individual in the room, "Please know that this is extremely sensitive information. If you have a problem with discretion, leave now, or I will personally castrate you at a later date. Which you may find inconvenient."

"The date, or the castration?" asks Neal.

"What?" asks Dom.

"Which one will will I find inconvenient?" stresses Neal.

"Both." Alanna smiles wolfishly at her former squire.

Neal pretends to consider. "Ok, I accept your terms." He turns to Roald, "Continue."

Roald smiles, a thin smile that reminds Kel of Wyldon of Cavall. "According to the last census and land survey done in the final years of my grandfather, the late King Roald's reign, there was a small village situated on this land. Part of a larger network of nomadic hunting villages."

Tresler's eyebrows shoot upward in consternation. "You're not suggesting that these people hunted other people. Are you?"

Alanna rolls her eyes at Jasson's mage. "No. I do remember, though, in Maren-"

"Eugh," says Jasson, with the look of someone who knows where Alanna's story is headed.

"- No, we're not." Roald interrupts both the Champion and his brother abruptly, and Alanna briefly looks annoyed. "It's no less horrifying, what I'm about to suggest. After the Coronation Revolt, there is no record of anyone living in this region of Tortall."

"So, what?" asks Merric. "They left? Where did they go?"

Roald sighs. "What if they didn't leave?"

There's a beat of silence in which Kel looks between Alanna and Roald. "Is there any evidence to support what you're suggesting?"

"What _are_ you suggesting, exactly?" asks Neal.

Alanna grimaces. "When Jonathan used the Dominion Jewel to quell the uprising, he called on the power of the land. You can't harness power from nothing - there's always give and take."

"It hurt all corners of the country," nods Jasson. "It caused drought and famine in some places."

Roald inclines his head. "Places with much more hospitable terrain than the North."

"But there are only men's skeletons," says Merric evenly. "Where are the women, if this was a village?"

"It's only a theory, of course," says Roald.

There's a grim silence before Dom speaks out. "What I want to know, is how this has anything to do with my men, and why Eldorne has been called here."

Alanna and Roald exchange a glance. It's Alanna who turns to address Lerant.

"Your Aunt, Delia."

"Yes," Lerant doesn't speak so much as growl.

"She has apparently come forward to say that she has relevant information."

Lerant laughs bitterly. "Come forward in her cell? What does this have to do with me? I have no desire to speak with or know my Aunt. She's a traitor to my country."

Roald speaks, apologetically. "She's saying she'll only speak to you, or your sister."

The silence is deafening, and Kel feels her eyes dragged to Lerant's face. He looks young, and ancient, and scared.

"You don't have to do it," says Kel. "It's your choice." She wants him to say no, to tell Alanna and Roald to go jump of the mountain pass.

Of course, that's not what he says.

"One more thing," says Roald turning to his younger brother.

"What else could there possibly be," snaps Kel, and Neal gives her a look.

Alanna removes a pouch from her belt and throws it at Jasson, who catches it without any hesitation. It lands in his opened palm with a thump, and as his fingers curl around the soft velvet he frowns.

Neal looks between Alanna and the youngest Prince, his eyes wide, and whistles softly.

"That's not the-"

Kel interrupts curtly. "Don't be daft, Neal, of course it is."

ttt

Once she's in the safety of her room, Hope removes the heavily feathered mask from her face, and drops it on her bed. Without taking off her gloves, she removes the object that she'd tucked into the bust of her dress, hours earlier, at the Hollyrose festivities.

When Orwyn had left her side, Hope had been approached by a petite woman, with a simple feline mask. Her clothes had been less ornate than Hope's own, though beautifully tailored. The woman had quietly said her name, and after a moment of hesitation, Hope had nodded. Upon confirmation, the woman had pressed something into her hands and smiled kindly, before disappearing into the night.

Hope would think that she's imagined the entire thing, except for the second time in as many hours, she has unwrapped the simple black cloth to reveal what she suspects to be nothing less than the Dominion Jewel.

* * *

_Fenella '11_


End file.
